


not here to make (girl)friends

by amycarey



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, F/F, So many tropes, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-30 19:23:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5176802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amycarey/pseuds/amycarey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘True Love’s Kiss’ is a network cash cow and Regina Mills is an excellent producer, working under her executive producer mother, even if she feels like she’s losing a piece of her soul with every manipulated confession, or reputation ruined, or argument with her son. Emma Swan is Cora Mills’ favoured candidate to win the Suitor’s heart in season five after “that fiasco with Guinevere Rodrigues”. All Emma wants is her parents’ approval, to prove to the couple who gave her up at birth that she’s worthy of their love and praise. </p><p>Or, the one where Emma's not here to make girlfriends, but Regina sort of is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. CHAPTER ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mostly blame coalitiongirl for all of this. Bachelor AUs can be your thing, she said, just like soulmate AUs are mine. Who am I to argue against the drama of queering up horrible, heteronormative television to which I am inexplicably addicted?
> 
> Owes a debt of gratitude to 'UnREAL', the incredibly gay straight ladies of season one of The Bachelor NZ, too many after work drinks spent talking about auditioning for the second season, and the dumpster for being filthy enablers.

**i. in which Regina is summoned to the executive producer’s office**

 

**_Is it Splitsville for TV’s True Love Couple?_ **

  _Dreamboat Suitor, Arthur Leroy (35), and his chosen partner, Guinevere Rodrigues (25), were totally loved-up in the final episode of reality television behemoth ‘True Love’s Kiss’._

_However, sources report that all is not happily ever after. The Brazilian beauty, who won the nation’s heart with her steadfast love for Arthur, has moved out of Arthur’s mansion in Orange County and was seen recently walking with his best friend, Lance Knightley (pictured below)._

_Friends of the real estate tycoon say he’s devastated by Guinevere’s betrayal. “He really thought they were the real deal,” a source close to Arthur told this reporter. “He was looking forward to their wedding and starting a family. And for her to betray him with his best friend, well, it’s going to be hard for him to trust anyone again.”_

_However, is there a darker side to Guinevere’s prince charming? Rumours begin to spread about his controlling behaviour. “He chose where they went, who she spent time with, even what she wore,” a friend of Guinevere’s told us. “He’s so much older than her and he got really possessive when she spent any time with her male friends. It just got too much for her.”_

_‘True Love’s Kiss’ producers are tight-lipped about the brewing scandal. “We are very excited to be introducing next season’s Suitor,” executive producer Cora Mills said at a recent press conference. “And we look forward to helping him find true love amongst a fine group of beautiful and intelligent young women.”_

_One wonders whether this will irreparably mar the reputation of ‘True Love’s Kiss’._

 

_*_

 

 _I will not let Cora Mills bully me. I will not let Cora Mills bully me._ Regina Mills repeats this mantra as she sits outside her mother’s office, feeling like nothing so much as a naughty child awaiting judgement from the school principal (not that she would know anything about that; had Regina ever been in trouble at school, the consequences did not bear thinking about). Still, the fear remains. She never knows if Cora’s summons is for something run-of-the-mill or if Regina has done something to earn her ire.

 

She runs over the past week in her mind. The prep work for ‘True Love’s Kiss’ is going smoothly, their suitor appropriately charming (though he does insist on unbuttoning his shirts too low and Regina is reminded rather a lot of the ‘Guy in your MFA’ Twitter account when he speaks and she’s fairly certain that he isn’t using his real name. Still, she’s not hired to wrangle _him_ ). The contracts are being signed by the girls without any drama. Henry is doing well in school; his recent report saw him with straight A’s so she cannot even be called a failure of a mother this time.

 

Not from Cora, at least, the bitter, rodent-like voice in her brain mutters.

 

“Come in,” Cora says, voice eerily soft, and she enters, kissing her mother’s cheek, the skin parchment beneath her lips.

 

“Hello, Mother,” she says, settling at last into the chair across from her mother. It’s slightly shorter than her mother’s own chair, a definite power tactic. Cora is all about power and, as much as Regina fears her, there's a degree of admiration as well. Few women are executive producers and even fewer can boast to the long-lasting success of Cora Mills.

 

“Cora, please,” Cora says reprovingly and Regina resists the urge, just barely, to roll her eyes at her mother’s insistence that she fully separate her personal and professional life. They have the same surname. Everyone knows they’re related. “Now, we have a problem. After last season’s incident…”

 

She’s referring, of course, to the current scandal where the previous woman who won the Suitor left him for his best friend only a month after the show finished. Gwen had been a risk, the Brazilian immigrant hardly the all-American girl viewers were conditioned to want to see win Arthur’s heart, but there had been some pressure from the network towards diversity, some criticism from a variety of sources about how ‘white’ their show was, a discrimination lawsuit threatened, to which Cora had bowed. “Never again,” she’d sneered when the news had broken. “If this is what I get for taking a chance on an ethnic girl…”

 

“Arthur was abusive,” Regina says. She had been fond of Gwen. She had been one of her girls, and Regina had fought for her. She had felt for the first time like she was doing something worthwhile, something of which her father, so in touch with his Puerto Rican heritage, would have been proud, or at least moderately less disappointed. “We should be celebrating the fact that Gwen got out.”

 

Cora scoffs. “Regardless,” she says. “It is imperative that this season is a success. I’m putting you in charge of my pick.” She passes Regina a file and she opens it.

 

_Emma Swan._

 

Physically, the girl is perfect: blonde, fair, thin, and undeniably all-American. Cora is nothing if not predictable in her favourites. Regina knows her tastes all too well. Although ostensibly, the Suitor will get to choose his fiancée, there are certain _recommendations_ made and, of course, no one gets far in the competition without Cora Mills’ approval.

 

“I’ll have a read of it tonight,” she says. She should be more familiar with the girls, but she’s been wrangling the West Coasters’ contracts. Cora had sent Kathryn Midas to the East Coast.

 

“See that you do,” Cora says, and returns to her screen, already absorbed in emails and projections and figures. Regina slips out, feeling like she’s just barely escaped the firing squad, and returns home, braving LA traffic. By the time she reaches home, she has a headache brewing.

 

Henry is home, doing his homework at his desk in the study. She kisses his forehead, trying not to be upset when he pulls away. “How was school, sweetheart?”

 

“Fine,” he says, shrugging. “Boring. We had a sub again.”

 

She tries not to scowl at that. His teacher has been sick twice already in his first week of school. For the amount of money she spends on his education she feels like this is unacceptable, but Henry would be furious if she complained, and she doesn’t want to be _that_ mother, doesn’t want to be her mother. "Dinner soon, sweetheart _.”_

 

 _“_ Whatever,” he says, his entire being focused on the math in front of him, jaw clenched and hand gripping the pen so tight that his knuckles are white. “I’m really busy, Mom.”

 

It didn’t used to be like this. But it had been tense for a couple of months now, ever since Cora let slip at a dysfunctional family dinner on the fourth of July—where Regina had refused to let Cora force her into another blind date, this time with an entertainment lawyer—that Henry was adopted. “You’re certainly fortunate you couldn’t inherit your mother’s genetic disposition towards disobedience,” she had said when Regina had shut her down completely and, at Henry’s confused look, had said, “surely you’ve told the boy the truth by now, Regina dear.”

 

She had been waiting for a good moment, for a time when he was old enough to understand. She had hoped it would be a quiet discussion, over cocoa and Polvorones, where she showed him baby photos and talked about what ‘closed adoption’ meant and how much she had wanted him, how much both she and Daniel had wanted him. She had imagined that they would cry but that he would understand.

 

Instead, he felt betrayed and had been lashing out ever since.

 

She frowns at his response, wanting to pry, but Dr Hopper, the therapist she has been seeing intermittently since Daniel’s death, has suggested she keep showing Henry that she loves him while giving him space to process. He, reluctantly, sees Dr Hopper every second week and she hopes it will help him some. So instead of prying or nagging, she runs her fingers through his hair, her touch tentative. “I’ll leave you to it then.” He grunts an acknowledgement.

 

Marian’s in the kitchen, and when Regina slumps onto a kitchen stool, she immediately pours her a glass of merlot. In spectacular timing, her childminder, who had been looking after Henry since she accepted the inevitable and moved to LA to work for Cora five years ago, recently moved to Nebraska. Marian has been a godsend this week, as Regina prepares for the 15th of September and the onslaught of filming, the hideous hours, the sleepless nights, the deep sense of self-loathing... “Bad day?” Marian asks, pouring a glass of wine for herself and leaning against the counter.

 

“My mother,” Regina says, sighing and drinking heartily from the glass.

 

Marian just nods as if this explains everything. “You definitely need wine then. I stuck a frozen lasagne in the oven,” she adds. “Set the timer and everything.”

 

“Want to stay for dinner?” Regina asks but Marian shakes her head.

 

“I have my thesis waiting for me at home,” she says, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. One of the reasons Marian has been able to help out so much is that she’s completing her PhD and so has flexible hours. “And probably an irritated fiancée. Take this time with Henry.”

 

“I think Henry would prefer it if you were there,” Regina says, but she slides down from the stool and opens the fridge, pulling out salad ingredients; Henry likes bell peppers. She’ll put plenty of them in the salad.

 

“I think _you’d_ prefer me there,” Marian says. She shoves a battered set of course readings into her handbag, before eyeing Regina seriously. “You’re going to be so busy soon, with the show. Don’t let this fester, _linda_.”

 

“I know,” she says and takes Marian’s empty wine glass. “Apologise to Mulan from me.” But at dinner that night, she does not heed Marian’s advice. Instead, she speaks of inconsequential things, drawing out more information about Henry’s schooling and how his first writing club meeting for the year went and all about his friends in the fifth grade. He answers mostly in monosyllables and shrugs.

 

“For goodness sake, Henry,” she says eventually, and try as she may she can’t help the irritated bite in her voice. “I didn’t think I’d have to deal with this attitude until you were actually a teenager.”

 

“Why don’t you just give me back then?” he says and storms out of the kitchen, sneakers thumping on the stairs and the door of his room slamming. She draws her lips together in a line, pinches her forehead, her headache raging.

 

 _Give him space_ , she thinks, and instead of storming upstairs after him demanding an explanation and provoking a fight, she makes herself a herbal tea, goes to her study and opens the file on Emma Swan. She can see why Cora likes her; quite apart from her looks—toeing that delicate line between feminine and strong—she has a suitably tragic backstory. Adopted out as a baby, the adoption didn’t stick, and she was in and out of foster homes all her life. The file tells her that Emma Swan was only reunited with her birth mother and father in the last couple of years, teenagers when they had her and forced to give her up by their parents.

 

Emma Swan has massive scale abandonment issues, an appalling history with romantic partners, and difficulty letting people in. _I’m entering at the urging of my mother_ , she writes. _She wants me to be happy, to find true love like she did with my father, and I want the same for herself._

 

She scoffs at this. She knows how manipulative mothers operate and this is a paint-by-numbers lesson in such machinations. Emma must be desperate to please her mother, to prove she’s good enough despite being given up. The birth parents, now in their forties and still together after all this time after all, have two children of their own. Emma Swan cannot simply be okay with this.

 

She already knows how to frame her journey on the show. _Can the suitor break down Emma’s walls?_

 

Of course the answer will be yes. Regina will have to make sure of it. She’s done it before. Sometimes she’s even able to convince herself that she’s not a terrible person.

 

She puts the file aside and returns her mug, now empty, to the kitchen. Henry’s bedtime. When she reaches his room, his light is already out but she can hear his breathing, too rapid to be asleep, and she enters. He’s lit by the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling and by the sliver of moonlight watering through the drapes and painting his bedside table silver. She sits at the end of his bed, finding his calf and stroking it. “I love you, my darling boy,” she murmurs. “I would never give you up for anything in the world.”

 

He doesn’t respond for a long moment and she chokes down a sob. Standing, she straightens his duvet and moves to leave. She almost misses it when he mutters, “I love you too, Mom.” His tone is begrudging but it’s more than she’s had in weeks and she smiles all the way down the hall to her bedroom.

 

**ii. in which Regina first meets Emma Swan**

 

**_Meet the Ladies of ‘True Love’s Kiss’!_ **

  _This week, we bring you profiles on just a few of the lucky contestants on the forthcoming season of ‘True Love’s Kiss’._

**_Aurora Rose (22, Tennessee, Student)_ **

_The college student and former runner up to Miss Tennessee was encouraged to apply as a contestant by her trio of busy body aunts. The youngest contestant, Aurora (or Rory as she prefers to be known) studies literature at the University of Tennessee, though she’s taking the semester off in order to find true love!_

_When she’s not reading or playing soccer, Aurora enjoys needlework and sleeping. “I could sleep for days, my parents say!” she jokes._

  ** _Emma Swan (28, Maine, Deputy Sheriff)_**

_A Boston native, Emma Swan moved to small town Maine recently to be closer to her parents and younger brother and sister, where she works as a deputy for the sheriff’s department. “My mother and father have a fairy tale romance,” she says. “I want that for myself.”_

_Emma has been upfront about her chequered past_ — _some time in juvenile detention, wrongfully convicted_ — _and hopes no one holds it against her. “I could never be with someone who didn’t accept me, warts and all!” she says, laughing. She’s looking for a man who will share her love of good food, great television and jogging._

  ** _Tamara Drake (31, New York, PR Consultant)_**

_New York City is in Tamara Drake’s blood. “I was born and raised in Queens, live in Manhattan now,” she says. “Sometimes I think the city is the true love of my life.” Tamara’s competitive nature saw her take on the challenge to win our Suitor’s heart._

_“I hate losing,” the ambitious beauty says. “You can bet I’m in it to win it.” This life philosophy is certainly borne out in Tamara’s life; she runs marathons, enjoys quiz nights, and her PR firm is one of the top in New York City._

 

*

 

It’s on the following Monday that Regina Mills meets Emma Swan for the first time.

 

It’s also on the following Monday that Emma Swan mistakes Regina Mills for a contestant.

 

All the girls have arrived in LA and, today, Regina first meets with ‘her’ girls—a few forgettable faces and Emma Swan (because Cora wants her focus to be narrowed on her pick for that final proposal and Regina would not be entirely surprised if Cora’s got money riding on the final outcome with her co-executive producer, Gold)—to start building her story. That evening the women will meet the Suitor for the first time, will start to make their play for him, and Regina will be prepared.

 

For a moment, she sits, observing the room, listening to the chatter of the group of women. There’s useful information to be gained when people forget she’s there. She learned that three seasons ago, where one of her girls let slip to a makeup artist that she was a virgin, something that had _not_ been mentioned in her extensive file.

 

They’d used that, of course. It had played well with the Southern Christian demographic and she’d made final four.

 

So when Emma Swan slumps into the chair beside her, she doesn’t immediately turn on the ‘producer’ attitude. “Hey,” Emma says. Her hands tightly clasp a venti Starbucks cup like she might immediately expire without it, and she takes a long gulp of it, letting out a sigh as the coffee hits.

 

“Hey?” Regina says, confused. While sometimes the women forget she’s there, they never approach her. They’re afraid of her, at first at least. They quickly grow to trust her.

 

Their mistake.

 

“I’m Emma,” she says, flashing a quick smile at Regina. A fleeting thought crosses her mind that the pictures in the file really don’t do justice to how green her eyes are. She’ll look great in close up, possibly tearful after some tale of personal tragedy or confession of love.

 

“I know,” Regina says, brow furrowed. Her earpiece digs into cartilage and she scratches at her ear.

 

“God, are you one of those ‘I’m not here to make friends’ people?” Emma asks. “I thought that was a reality TV cliché.” She laughs, running a finger through the princess curls with which Cora is clearly so enamoured.

 

(“We could try highlights,” her mother had said, eyeing her hair dubiously as she’d sat in front of the mirror, the stylist poised with comb and scissors. “She’d look hideous full blonde, however.”

 

“Please keep talking about me like I’m not even here,” Regina, full of repressed sixteen-year-old rebellion, had muttered, though not loud enough for Cora to actually hear of course. She might have been seething with repressed teenaged rebellion back then but she’d never been an idiot.)

 

“I’m Regina,” Regina says, and holds out a hand to her. Emma takes it, her skin warm.

 

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “So, what do you think this guy’s going to be like?”

 

Oh my _God_ , Regina thinks. She thinks I’m one of the contestants.

 

“Your producer,” she adds and she’s almost amused at the look of horror on Emma’s face.

 

“Oh!” she says. “Wow, God! I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m sure it’s flattering to be considered attractive enough to be a ‘True Love’s Kiss’ girl,” Regina says, raising her eyebrows.

 

“Are you kidding?” Emma asks. “Don’t fish for compliments, lady. You’ve got to know you’re hot.”

 

“Crass,” Regina says but she’s pleased nonetheless. Mother has never even _tried_ to recruit her as a contestant on the show and Daniel had died years before the show started. Her half-sister, Zelena, was the first ever winner, a real success story for ‘True Love’s Kiss’.

 

But Zelena wasn’t Henry Mills’ (née Morales before he took his wife’s surname at their wedding) daughter. Zelena’s father was white.

 

“So,” Emma says. “You’re here to produce me.” She waggles her eyebrows and only succeeds in spilling coffee down her tank top. She curses.

 

“I suspect, dear, that you will need a lot of producing,” Regina says, and she stands. “I really must be off.”

 

She spends the rest of the day in set up. Cora wants roses and then roses are “too gauche for words, dear,” and Regina’s forced to organise the replacement of all the floral arrangements with lilies, which make her sneeze. The gazebo has a broken post, which needs fixing. One of the PAs is so jumpy she spills Regina’s coffee all over a script Regina’s reading.

 

She calls Henry on her lunch break, which she finally gets to as school is due to let out. “The new nanny starts tomorrow,” she tells him. “You’ll stay with Marian and Mulan tonight.”

 

“Sure,” he replies, sounding distracted. She wonders if he’s even listening to her.

 

“I love you,” she says.

 

“Okay.”

 

She throws her salad away, uneaten, food tasting like dirt in her mouth.

 

That night, the Suitor, who cleans up nicely in a suit and tie (though needs to be coached by Kathryn not to tug at his collar like a fidgety child), stands at the doors to the mansion. “Twenty girls,” their smarmy host, August Booth, says, standing beside him. “All vying for the heart of one man, our charming Suitor. All hoping to be the one to get True Love’s Kiss.” She drowns him out; she’s heard his spiel a thousand times before. It’s utterly predictable. August ( _definitely_ a stage name) fancies himself a wordsmith.

 

“Are the cars in place?” she radios.

 

“Ready when you are,” comes back over the radio, static jarring.

 

“And go,” she says.

 

And finally, _finally_ , the cars start to arrive.

 

Regina watches, dispassionate and calling out the occasional order, as girl after girl meets the ‘man of their dreams’. And then Emma steps out of one of the cars.

 

She’s in hot pink. The dress is tight, though reasonably modest for all that, knee length and covering the bulk of her cleavage, the perfect blend of sexy and marriageable; Regina couldn’t have chosen better herself. It manages to do very great justice to her toned arms and legs, to her flat stomach and perky breasts. She strides forward in high heels, not the most graceful walk but making it work nonetheless, and flicks those golden curls down her back in a waterfall of hair.

 

“Camera Three, follow her,” Regina says, watching the monitor.

 

The Suitor’s smile broadens when he sees Emma. “Hi,” he says, leaning forward and kissing her cheek. She sees a blush spread to Emma’s cheeks, watches as she ducks her head (shy? Embarrassed? Either way the American public will be all over this perceived display of modesty) and tucks hair behind her ears.

 

“Hey,” she says. “I’m Emma.”

 

“Emma,” he says. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, _Emma_.” The trick is to memorise their names, or at least the ones that immediately hit his radar, and name repetition is the easiest technique. They want audience name recognition too, of the important girls at least, and Emma is guaranteed to be that.

 

She laughs. “This is like a dream come true for guys, isn’t it? A whole buffet of women to choose from.”

 

Beside her, Kathryn tenses. “No,” Regina murmurs. “This is good. This is what our opponents think. Having one of the girls express that…”

 

“Makes us seem self-aware,” Kathryn finishes. “You are _so_ your mother’s daughter.”

 

She tenses at that, suspecting that the comparison is not entirely flattering from Kathryn’s end, but returns her concentration to the couple before her. “I don’t know if I’d put it like that,” he is saying. “It’s a privilege meeting such intelligent, sophisticated women though.”

 

Emma laughs again. Does she actually find this endearing? Regina had been charmed by the utter lack of guile Emma Swan seemed to have, but now, now she’s not sure. Maybe she’d been played just as much.

 

She frowns again. Then, Emma enters the mansion and Regina lets out a breath. “Camera two,” she barks. “You’re slipping.”

 

When they set up inside, Kathryn wrangles the Suitor. “Two of your girls are wanted for private chats,” she says. “Rory and Emma. Plus we’re adding Tamara to the list. Diversity.”

 

She misses Emma’s ‘private’ chat, busy dealing with a drunk; one of her girls cannot hold her liquor and she has to manage the situation carefully. Elsa immediately makes the list of recommendations not to continue on, but that doesn’t mean they can’t mine the situation for maximum dramatic effect. She’ll watch the dailies later, see how Emma performed, see where she can coach her to improve further.

 

And then there’s the ceremony. It’s cheesy as hell, she’s always thought so, but they’re sponsored by a jewellery company and so the girls selected to move on to the next round are given a bracelet, to which charms will be added weekly. Cora loves it, of course, and it is her show after all.

 

(The bracelet bears a striking resemblance to a handcuff and Regina’s often wondered how deliberate this imagery is, women cuffed to the pervasive machine of heteronormativity.

 

Marian had laughed when she suggested it once. “It’s just a charm bracelet, Regina,” she’d said.

 

Regina’s not so sure. It would feel like a shackle to her.)

 

While the Suitor has agency over his picks, the order is decided by the producers. “Emma’s first pick,” Regina says and when Kathryn looks set to protest, she adds, “Cora’s decision,” and she subsides.

 

They will, of course, pull Emma back for a few weeks mid-season, just as she’s starting to feel loved, have her doubt his feelings for her. This usually leads to confessions of feelings.

 

“Emma,” the Suitor says when the cameras roll. “Will you continue on our journey to true love?”

 

Emma’s surprise is evident when she’s chosen; she’s either a very good actress or genuinely shocked. Regina cannot decide. Still, she accepts the tiara, hugging the Suitor and smiling at something whispered in her ear. They are the picture of intimacy already.

 

This is going to work.

 

She sets up Emma on a chaise lounge after the ceremony. “So,” she says from her position behind the camera. “How do you feel?”

 

Emma twists the bracelet on her wrist. “I don’t know,” she says. “It’s been such a whirlwind of an evening. Elated, I guess.”

 

“If you can stop with the qualifiers,” Regina says. “The best television deals in strong response.”

 

She nods. “I’m elated. Ecstatic. Relieved. I want to see this journey through.”

 

“And the Suitor?” Regina asks. “What do you think of him?”

 

“He seems nice,” Emma says.

 

Was there ever a more tepid response to a man? Regina’s certain she’s never heard one. “Were there sparks?” she asks.

 

“I guess?” She pauses. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this. Yes, there were definitely sparks. He’s certainly an attractive man. I’m really looking forward to getting to know him.” She smiles. “Is that good?”

 

“Wonderful,” Regina says.

 

*

 

_“I’m elated. Ecstatic. I want to see this journey through. There were definitely sparks.” The shot cuts to Emma and the Suitor in the gazebo, her staring at him, starry eyed. “I’m really looking forward to getting to know him.”_

 

_Cut to a close up. Emma smiles into the camera, looking for all the world like she is staring directly at her true love._

 


	2. CHAPTER TWO

**iii. in which Regina Mills brings her son to work**

 

**_Stars, They’re Just Like Us!_ **

  _Zelena Greene, the first winner of reality TV behemoth ‘True Love’s Kiss’, was spotted taking her children to the park last weekend._

_Greene was seen drinking coffee and laughing with a gal pal while her children played on the swings and ran around. Pictured below, Greene comforted eldest child, Darcy, when she fell and scraped her knee._

_Though Greene’s win on the show was plagued with rumours of fixing by producer mother, Cora Mills, the six year fairytale romance resulting in two children has stood the test of time._

 

*

 

Of course, Henry is sick on the day the new childminder has off to meet with her thesis supervisor. She really must stop hiring students. And, of course, Henry is sick on a day she absolutely must be on location.

 

“I’ll be fine at home, Mom,” he whines and then coughs pathetically into a kleenex.

 

“There are laws, Henry,” she says. “Besides, you used to _like_ coming to set.” He had spent two whole weeks with her on the set of ‘True Love’s Kiss’ when he was seven. It had worried her, then, how much he had enjoyed the world of reality TV, though she now suspects that much of the basis of its appeal was the generous snack table and time spent hanging around camera operators who didn’t moderate their language around a seven year old.

 

“I’m not a little kid anymore,” he says.

 

She decides saying ‘you’ll always be my kid’ is not the best path to positive mother-son relationships and instead asks, “Shall I give Aunty Zelena a call?” Henry shrugs.

 

But Zelena cannot look after him. “I’m run off my feet today, sis,” she says. “Darcy has a hair appointment and Manson is teething.”

 

Manson is four years old.

 

She and Zelena got on well when Regina was a child. The developing resentment is more recent—and unwelcome. She has tried to talk with Zelena about it before but has come away feeling frustrated. “You get everything,” Zelena had said last time they’d had dinner together, tongue loosened after too many glasses of pinot grigio, and Regina had wanted to scream at her. What had she got? A perpetually critical and manipulative mother, a dead fiance, and a soulless job that she loathes.

 

Yeah, she’s a real winner.

 

“Thanks anyway,” Regina says, and she cannot help the sarcasm lacing her voice, phone clenched in her hand. “I’ll let you get back to your improbably teething child.”

 

Henry grimaces when she hangs up. “I’m coming to set, aren’t I?” he says, sighing. “I’ll go pack a bag.”

 

It’s not too bad really. There are plenty of couches, so long as she sets him up in unused rooms, and while there’s no TV he has his tablet and several books and, when she arrives, she puts one of the PAs on Henry duty. “If he sneezes, I want to know about it,” she says, ignoring Henry roll his eyes. “Sweetheart, I’ll check in with you as often as I can.” She kisses his forehead, his skin warm to the touch but not dangerously so, and pulls the blanket she found in one of the many closets up to his waist.

 

He lets out a gust of breath and pulls his tablet from his backpack. “Yeah, great. Whatever.”

 

Today, she’s producing a group date, the Suitor taking four of the girls horseback riding at the ranch only a short drive from the mansion. Or so it will appear on screen. There will, in fact, be doubles for anything beyond a walk around a fenced in field. It’s not worth the risk of injury, as they discovered three seasons ago when one of the girls broke her arm.

 

Plaster casts and ball gowns are not a sexy combination and you can’t eliminate a girl who broke limbs in the line of duty.

 

The chemistry is lacking today and she’s not sure if it’s the girls themselves—one is too provocative, the other three reserved—or the Suitor. He’s laying on the charm a little too thick; it’s stilted and doing nothing to bring the shy girls out of their shells. One of them (a little blonde named Ashley) is one of Kathryn’s top picks and Cora has deemed her one of the acceptable alternatives to Emma, should Emma Swan “prove disappointing” (and her tone is laced with dire warnings for whoever makes Emma Swan prove disappointing). She watches as Kathryn tries to speak with him about stepping it up.

 

With no success. He talks over her the entire time—Regina can’t hear exactly what he’s saying but he has already been demonstrating diva-like behaviour so she can make an educated guess—and when she tries to get him quiet, he walks away. She can feel Kathryn’s frustration radiating off her in waves and so she follows him back to the stables.

 

“Hey, Mills,” he says and she winces internally at the informality, careful to keep her expression blank. “How’s it going?”

 

“It all feels false,” she tells him.

 

“Isn’t that the show all over though?” he asks. He’s standing a shade too close, smirking, like he thinks he’s God’s gift to all women.

 

“Get better at acting then,” she replies because there’s no sense in beating around the bush with someone she suspects is intensely literal-minded.

 

His lips purse. He’s offended. Good. When they pick up again, he flirts outrageously with all four women in turn, flashing his improbably white, straight teeth, but at least this time around it feels natural. Kathryn smiles over at her and mouths ‘thank you’.

 

“He’s not my responsibility,” she tells her when shooting is through. “Keep him in line. We want to minimise Cora’s presence on set.”

 

Kathryn nods fervently. Having Cora on location is a nightmare.

 

Of course, her mother calls her as she’s heading back to the mansion. “Progress?” she asks. Regina can hear the clack of typing in the background because of course Mother couldn’t possibly take thirty seconds out of her schedule solely to devote to Regina, even professionally.

 

“The riding shoot went smoothly,” she says. “We’re on schedule to shoot the first single date tomorrow.” Though the show will air over three months, in all actuality they film over the course of a few weeks.

 

“Good,” she says. “Now, I want Emma on that single date.”

 

“We have it set up for Tamara…”

 

“Emma,” Cora says in a tone that brooks no argument. “And I want it to be emotionally resonant.”

 

Regina sighs. “You’re the boss.” Honestly, Cora’s probably right that they Emma to build that emotional connection early on. She had been hoping to give Tamara a fair chance; this is an even whiter season than usual of ‘True Love’s Kiss’.

 

“Yes,” Cora says, “I am,” and she hangs up.

 

When she arrives back at the mansion, she grabs soup from craft services and makes her way to the room where she’s secreted Henry. However, when she arrives, he’s not alone. Emma Swan is with him, sitting on a footstool by his head, and he’s laughing, sounding happier than she’s heard him in a long time—despite the rattling cough.

 

Emma leaps up when she sees her. “Regina, hi!” she says. “I was—”

 

“Bored?” Regina asks, setting the cartons of soup on the coffee table.

 

“I went exploring,” Emma admits, cocking her head the one side in a way that is bizarrely endearing. “And I found the kid.”

 

“So I can see.” Ignoring Emma, she sits at Henry’s feet and pulls the lid from the soup. “Sit up, sweetheart. It’s chicken noodle.”

 

Henry grumbles but shifts so that he’s upright and takes the soup from her. “Thanks,” he says, not meeting her eye. The levity that had filled the room prior to her arrival has disappeared. She fidgets with her hands in her lap, resisting the desire to coddle him.

 

“Henry was getting pretty bored too,” Emma says, and Regina suspects she’s only talking to fill the silence. “I thought I could scrounge a pack of cards and teach him something. Cheat perhaps?”

 

Regina catches Henry’s eye and he grins. He’s an expert cheat player, with excellent instincts and a real talent for telling lies, which she hopes remains solely used for card games. “I think that sounds like fun,” she says blandly.

 

“I can always tell when people are lying,” Emma says. “It’s like a superpower of mine.”

 

Henry hides a smirk at this and, once again, shares a look with Regina. It’s everything to her right in this moment because no matter how angry her little boy gets at her there is still their bond, their ten years of shared history and love. “I’m really excited to learn how to play,” he says and, this time, Regina can’t help but laugh.

 

“What’s funny?” Emma demands.

 

Regina hands her the carton of soup she’d been planning to eat herself. She can grab a meal on the way back to editing. “You have this,” she says. Their hands brush at the transfer, Emma’s fingers cold, sending a shiver through Regina’s body. “I’m just glad Henry’s being suitably entertained.”

 

Emma smiles. “He’s a great kid,” she says.

 

“ _He’s_ sitting right here,” Henry grumbled and slurps at his soup.

 

“Perhaps you could show Miss Swan the story you’re writing?” she suggests.

 

“Maybe,” Henry says, hesitant. “Perhaps after lunch if you still want to hang out.” He looks across at Emma.

 

“I’d be honoured,” Emma says and Regina might be imagining things but she thinks Emma’s eyes are suspiciously bright.

 

She walks Regina out. “Need to discuss boring show stuff,” she says to Henry who’s on his tablet again and honestly doesn’t seem to care. “I’ll be back and then we’ll play cards.”

 

Once in the hall, however, she says, “Thanks for not freaking out about this.”

 

“Why would I freak out?” Regina asks. “We did extensive background checks on you all.”

 

Emma laughs. She’s another one who stands too close, close enough that Regina can see the faint freckles on her skin, usually hidden by foundation, and the absurdly long eyelashes for such a fair person. She finds she doesn’t mind Emma’s proximity quite so much. “Still,” she says. “Thanks.”

 

“Be ready for tomorrow, Ms Swan,” she says, throat raspy. “I hear there’s going to be a single date.”

 

That night, Henry still has his light on when she goes up to say good night. “I’m sorry about today,” she says.

 

“It’s okay,” he mumbles, eyes drifting shut in spite of himself. “Emma’s pretty cool.”

 

Regina smiles. “She’s not bad, is she?” she says. “Good night.” She stands in his doorway a moment, watching as he drifts off to sleep.

 

Not a bad day all in all.

 

**iv. in which Emma’s tragic past is revealed and milked for ratings**

 

**_Former ‘True Love’s Kiss’ Winner Reveals Tragic Past in Tell-All Exclusive_ **

  _Looking at Ariel de la Mer, one would never think the petite redhead, constantly smiling, would have had to face her own personal demons coming onto ‘True Love’s Kiss’. Ariel, who won Eric’s heart in season two, is up front about her selective mutism, which almost led to her leaving the show._

_“I was diagnosed as a child,” she tells us. “With therapy, I was able to recover from it, but it still flares up when I’m under pressure and on ‘True Love’s Kiss’...” She sighs and looks out the window of the large, seaside property she shares with Eric, gaze intent. “My anxiety levels spiked and the stress almost became too much.”_

_So what helped the Titian beauty work through her condition and come out on top? She smiles. “Eric,” she says. “He was so patient with me and there was such a connection between us. I was able to put everything else aside and focus on him.”_

_It is at this point that her dreamboat beau, Eric, enters..._

 

_*_

 

Emma smiles when Regina arrives on set that morning, and bounds over to her. “Hi!” she says. “How’s the kid?”

 

“Henry’s well,” Regina says, after a brief moment of confusion. Honestly, she’s not used to this positive attention from the girls. She’s either invisible or loathed, no in between. Emma seems to actually _like_ her and she can’t help but feel like that’s dangerous.

 

“Good!” she says, placing a hand on Regina’s arm. Her touch is electric, fizzing and popping through Regina’s veins. And, _oh God,_ this is The Worst.

 

“You’re needed in this scene, Miss Swan,” Regina says, clearing her throat, which has become unaccountably dry.

 

The invitation card, gilded with silver, is given to the unfortunately named Rory Rose (Regina had tried to convince her to stick with Aurora for the purposes of the show but she refused). “It’s a single date!” she says, opening the envelope. They do several takes of this until the excited response is sufficiently over the top. Rory clears her throat and reads. “ _If you go down to the woods today, you’re sure for a big surprise.”_

 

“That’s mildly creepy,” Tamara says and Emma snorts. Regina frowns. They’ll edit out Emma’s less than appropriate response later.

 

“And the person going on the date is…” Rory looks over at Regina who gestures to hold, and hold, and… “Emma!”

 

Emma’s first response is to look over at Regina. She’s beaming, face alight with happiness, and Regina can see why Cora wants her to win so badly. “So,” she asks, when they’ve set Emma up in front of the green screen. “Are you excited to get the first of the single dates?”

 

“Really excited!” she says, and this time Regina doesn't have to ask her to be more assertive. She is surprised to feel jealousy knot itself in her stomach at this. “And shocked. I thought Tamara or maybe Rory would get it.”

 

“Obviously this is a chance to get to know the Suitor better,” Regina says, swallowing her jealousy and reminding herself that this is the same as any other interview. “What do you hope to find out about him?”

 

“I guess I’d like to get to know him better. I’ve barely spoken to him beyond, like, how are you? Isn’t that weird?” Emma smiles that quick half-smile with which Regina is becoming so familiar when she's in front of the camera. “I’d like to know about his family, his work, what makes him tick. Anything, everything, whatever he’s willing to tell me really.”

 

“Do you think there will be any resentment from the other girls?”

 

“I suppose so?” She appears dubious. “We all know it’s a competition,” she says. “I would try really hard not to resent others for their success here but I guess I’m pretty competitive. I like to win.”

 

*

 

_The camera cuts to a mid-shot of Emma Swan, sitting in front of a screen covered in rose petals. “I’d like to get to know him better,” Emma says, and she's smiling. Beneath her voice, soft classical music can be heard. “His family, his work, what makes him tick. Everything.”_

 

_The shot fades into one of Emma laughing with the Suitor at a cocktail party, carefully framed to ensure they are the only two on screen. In voiceover, we hear, “we all know it’s a competition. I like to win.”_

 

*

 

The incredibly obvious clue notwithstanding, Emma feigns impressive surprise when she arrives at the clearing in the woods to find a picnic lunch laid out and the Suitor waiting for her. The setting is perfectly romantic. Of course it is; Regina set it up. She even had one of the PAs “plant” light pink roses around the clearing. They’ll get nasty tweets about this when it airs (“ _roses grow on bushes, who are they trying to kid with this bullshit #tlks5”)_ , but Emma appears genuinely charmed by the scene. “How pretty,” she says. She’s dressed in a shirt the same pink as the flowers—Regina’s pick, though she’s regretting the costume choice now because, while it suits the setting, it doesn't suit her. Emma Swan is not soft pinks. She’s not pastels. She’s brilliant reds and vivid yellows, deep blues and vibrant greens.

 

The Suitor hands her a bouquet. “Not nearly as pretty as you,” he says and tucks one rose behind her ear, which, well, it’s smooth, Regina has to admit. His hand brushes her cheek, thumb caressing the skin, and Emma’s cheeks flush pink. She hopes that shows up on camera because it’s a moment they’ll cut back to if ( _when_ , she reminds herself, because unless she fucks up completely Emma has this in the bag) Emma wins. That first, perfect moment of contact. Cora will love it.

 

They sit together on the picnic rug, Emma crossing her legs like a child on the mat at school, and someone hurries over with a bottle of champagne. “To you,” the Suitor says, clinking his glass against Emma’s.

 

“To us,” she replies and then she looks over, meeting Regina’s eye, questioning. If she’s reading it right, Emma’s desperate for anyone’s approval. Years spent without permanent family will do that to a person—just as years of living with family whose approval is finite and comes with a thousand provisos has had a similar effect on Regina.

 

“You keep looking over at me,” Regina says, after she calls for time, crouching down beside Emma and ignoring the Suitor, who appears irritated that Regina is interrupting them. “Pretend we’re not here.”

 

Emma’s gaze has drifted lower, to the strain of the top buttons of her shirt. Regina snaps a finger in front of her face and she jerks her head up abruptly. “Okay. Just me and him, right?”

 

“Precisely,” Regina says. “You’re doing extremely well, dear.” It’s disconcerting how Emma’s face brightens at her words.

 

The date starts off light, questions of favourite colours and interests. They both enjoy jogging apparently, which will make for _fascinating_ television and Regina has to actively neutralise her expression because Emma still has an irritating tendency to look over at her. Emma’s actually been eating the picnic food and drinking the wine, which is not something Regina’s ever seen on a single date before, the couple normally too busy soaking up every brief moment together to worry about food, so when Emma takes a bathroom break, she approaches the Suitor. “Amp up your questions,” she says. “Ask about her past relationships.”

 

“Anything in particular you want out of this?” the Suitor asks, running his fingers through artfully tousled hair.

 

“The viewers need to know why Emma’s tentative around you,” she says. “Betrayal, heartbreak, all that juicy stuff.” He nods, smirking.

 

“You horning in on my date?” Emma asks, standing behind Regina.

 

“Not my type,” Regina says. _And I honestly wonder if he’s yours_.

 

She’ll give it to the Suitor though. He might be vain, cocky and a little too well coiffed, but he’s good at this. He and Emma sit in silence, side by side, and he watches Emma as she picks at the remains of the picnic. “I feel like you’ve got your walls up around me,” he says.

 

Emma pulls apart a slice of bread, squashing the soft dough between thumb and forefinger. “It’s just,” she says. “I don’t find it easy to let people in.”

 

He edges closer, places a comforting arm on her shoulder. “Would you like to talk to me about it?”

 

Emma, blast her, looks over at Regina, her face a mask of indecision. She’s drumming the fingers of her right hand against her denim-clad thigh. Regina nods, smiles, gestures for Emma to speak, and hates herself for doing this. _She knew what she signed up for_ , she thinks. _We have all this information on file_ , she thinks. _She’s not a child_ , she thinks.

 

(The guilt doesn’t cease.)

 

“I had this boyfriend,” Emma says. She’s not looking at anyone now, not even Regina, instead talking to her knees. “When I was seventeen. I’d run away from my last foster home and I met him because we tried to steal the same car. It’s a long story.” She looks over at the Suitor briefly.

 

“I’d love to hear it some time,” the Suitor says.

 

“‘It’s not very interesting,” she says, dismissive. “Anyway, I fell in with him and we were so in love. We did some stuff I’m not proud of and then…” She pauses. “We wanted to settle down somewhere, Tallahassee. He had these watches he’d stolen. I was just going to pick them up for him so he could fence them.”

 

The late afternoon air is cool, a breeze shooting through the clearing. Emma pushes her hair back behind her ears, heedless of the flower that drifts to the rug. “I got caught. He ran. And then in juvie I found out I was pregnant.” She pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them close.

 

“You have a child?” the Suitor asks.

 

“I gave birth,” she corrects. “The kid’s not mine. He’d be ten now. I don’t know.” She sighs, shoulders shaking and not just from the cold. She’s struggling to keep it together.

 

Regina presses her lips into a firm line. “Close up of Emma’s face,” she instructs. They need to see the tears threatening to blossom from her eyes.

 

“Thank you,” the Suitor says. “I know it must be hard telling me this but I have really enjoyed getting to know some of the Emma behind those high walls.” He reaches into the pocket of his khaki slacks. “I realise it’s early, but I want to know more of you. Will you stay on this journey with me for another week?” He holds out a charm.

 

“I’d love to,” Emma says and if she’s still pale and wan and her response less than enthused, well, they can edit the segment so no one notices. She lets the Suitor clip the charm in place on the bracelet and accepts his hug, her own arms encircling his body even as she stiffens against the touch of his lips pressed to her cheek.

 

Back at the mansion, Emma holds it together long enough to be fawned over. “Was it totally romantic?” Ashley asks, sighing.

 

Tamara’s questioning has a slightly more cynical bent. “Did you kiss?”

 

Emma frowns. “Of course not,” she says. Regina makes a mental note to interview Tamara when they’ve finished filming Emma and the envious reaction of her fellow competitors.

 

When filming is over she battles with herself. She should really be getting home. If she leaves set now, she’ll be able to have a late dinner with Henry, help him with his homework. Yet, despite this, she finds herself outside Emma’s closed bedroom door. She knocks. No answer. “Miss Swan?”

 

She hears a nose being blown and then the door opens. Emma’s eyes are red-rimmed and her face pale and stained with sticky tears, clumping her mascara and running rivulets through the thick foundation necessary for the camera. “Is there something you need?”

 

“May I come in?” Regina asks.

 

Emma stands aside. “Sorry about the mess.” Outfits are thrown everywhere, crumpled across the single bed, and there are several kleenex balled up on the bedside table.

 

Regina shifts a pile of clothing and sits down, rummaging through her handbag. “Sit,” she says, patting the space in front of her. Emma sits, and Regina pulls out makeup wipes. She tucks her hand under Emma’s chin, pulls her close. “Do you want to talk?”

 

“I’ve talked enough today, I think,” Emma says, laughing though she sounds anything but amused.

 

Regina presses the wipe firmly against her skin, Emma shuddering at the sudden cold, and removes a sweep of foundation. “There’s talking,” she says. “And then there’s talking without cameras.”

 

“Can I trust you?” Emma asks. Her lips twist into a grimace

 

“Close your eyes,” Regina says in response and wipes away Emma’s eye makeup. She can see the delicate blue veins on her eyelids, her skin so translucent and fragile. Emma’s chin is up, her neck a graceful arc. “I don’t know,” she says eventually, honest.

 

“He’ll be eleven soon,” Emma says in response. “I don’t regret it, you know? But I’d like to know he’s okay.”

 

Regina thinks of her own son, nearing eleven at an alarming speed. “Henry’s adopted,” she says. “There, you’re makeup free now.” She pulls her hand away, busies herself with returning the wipes to her handbag.

 

She feels Emma’s hand against hers, just for a moment. “He’s lucky,” she says, and her thumb strokes against the back of Regina’s hand.

 

“He didn’t take it well,” she finds herself saying. “I think—” she stops. She’d been about to tell Emma that she worries constantly: about her work taking over her time with Henry, about not being _enough_ for him, about him resenting her, growing to loathe her, like so many others in her life.

 

“No,” Emma says, hand squeezing hers. “He’s so lucky.” Her gaze is intent and earnest, eyes still rimmed red and the barest flecks of difficult-to-remove mascara and eyeliner caked to the edges of her eyes.

 

“Get some sleep, Miss Swan,” Regina says, standing and drawing her hand away. “You’re no good to me if you’re exhausted and crotchety.”

 

As she drives home, she wonders whether there’ll ever come a day where she believes her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the wonderful initial response to this.


	3. CHAPTER THREE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: threats of outing.

**v. in which Cora Mills wants a villain and Regina Mills creates one**

 

**_Meet Ella, the Villain of Season Three’s ‘True Love’s Kiss’_ **

 

_Dubbed ‘Cruella de Vil’ for her villainous ways on season three’s ‘True Love’s Kiss’_ — _notorious worldwide for being shot on camera kicking an adorable Dalmatian puppy away from her_ — _Ella is remarkably unrepentant._

_“It was a gentle nudge,” she says, taking a drag of her cigarette. “Honestly, you Americans blow everything out of proportion.”_

_Ella, born into the English aristocracy, has no time for American niceties. “I told it how I saw it, darling,” she says. “Some people didn’t like that, but viewers did. I was a cash cow.” The networks seems to love her at least. She’s making her debut on ‘Dancing with the Stars’ this fall._

_And her love life?_

_“I know what I want,” she says. “I won’t settle for anything, well, less.” A coded dig at Isaac Heller, season three’s Suitor? This reporter certainly wouldn’t be surprised._

  _*_

 “We won’t be here long,” she tells Henry as they get out of the car.

 

He’d been reading when she’d dragged him out into the late afternoon sun and he’s been grumbling the whole car ride about how he’d been up to a really exciting bit in ‘House of Hades’ and how Darcy and Manson are _terrible_ and, “Mom, you _hate_ family dinner so why do we even have to go?” until Regina snapped at him, so now he’s sulking and she’s trying to placate him.

 

“You just want to see a friendly face before dinner,” Henry says, tone faintly accusatory. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and scuffs a foot against the car tyre.

 

“For my sins,” she says and eventually he nods as if this makes sense, and runs ahead, knocking at the door to Marian and Mulan’s apartment. “Hey, doofus,” Marian says, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “Mulan needs some help with the next level of her game.”

 

Regina smiles gratefully as Henry scampers off to the spare room and hands over the bottle of wine. “Just one glass,” she says and follows Marian to the open living space, collapsing on the couch and accepting the proffered glass of wine.

 

“So,” Marian says, settling onto the couch with her legs tucked beneath her. “How are you?”

 

“Good,” Regina says. “I think. The show’s running smoothly.”

 

“And Henry?”

 

“It’s…” She sighs. “Better. He’s less outwardly hostile at least. Emma helped actually.” Henry’s been on set a couple of times since his sick day and he and Emma have become friends, playing cards in Emma’s free moments and stealing food from craft services.

 

“Emma?”

 

“One of the girls,” Regina says, and she feigns nonchalance.

 

Marian isn’t fooled, however. “Careful, _linda_ ,” she says. “Crushes on straight girls never end well.”

 

“We don’t know—” Regina begins. She doesn’t know what her game plan is here, except to possibly accuse Marian of being biphobic, laughable given that it was Marian who introduced her to the concept of sexual fluidity at college.

 

“Honey, she’s on ‘True Love’s Kiss’. She’s straight.”

 

“All irrelevant,” Regina says. “Because I’m not ‘crushing’.”

 

Marian laughs, drains her glass, and changes the subject to her latest meeting with her thesis supervisor, “who is being a totally unreasonable troll about everything, by the way.” And so Regina’s laughing when Henry appears to tell her it’s six thirty and if they don’t leave now they’ll be late and “incur the wrath of Grandma.”

 

“I’m thrilled your time with Mulan is extending your vocabulary,” she says, eyeing Marian’s fiancé suspiciously, who just grins. “Don’t give me that ‘aw shucks’ routine, Hua,” she adds, but kisses her cheek as they leave, whispering her thanks for hanging out with Henry.  

 

Her time with Marian gives her equilibrium and when they arrive at Zelena’s she is, if not totally relaxed, at least calm enough that her mother and sister might not immediately sense her anxieties.

 

Cora gives Henry a perfunctory hug when they enter before dismissing him. “Go and play with your cousins, dear,” she says and Henry grumbles but moves towards the den, from where they can hear the distant screeches of Darcy and Manson. “I have to discuss work with your mother.”

 

“Really, Mother?” Regina asks as Henry leaves. “This is supposed to be a lovely family dinner.”

 

“I won’t keep you from your sister long,” Cora says, sitting in an ornate armchair in prime position. She knows exactly how well she and Zelena get on, which is to say, not at all.

 

“Fantastic,” she mutters, settling down on the couch in the living room across from her mother. She crosses her legs, and then uncrosses them abruptly. _A lady does not cross her legs._

 

“As we’re filming episode three,” Cora says, drumming her fingers against the mahogany arms of the chair, “the network feel we need to establish a clear villain.”

 

“Of course,” Regina says. She has been preparing for this conversation. She’s created villains before when there isn’t one obvious candidate. “I was thinking—”

 

But Cora cuts across her. “Tamara will make the perfect villain.”

 

Regina feels her heart sink. “I don’t know if that’s our best PR move,” she says, careful and respectful. She feels protective of Tamara, the one brown face in a sea of white, and, moreover, she likes her. She’s snarky and irreverent and deserves to be considered America’s sweetheart just as much as Emma or Rory or Ashley or any of the other girls.

 

But at that moment Zelena enters with a bottle of wine. “It’s generally considered polite to greet your host when you arrive, sis,” she says, flipping her red curls over her shoulder, and the moment to convince Cora that making their one woman of colour the villain is not a good strategy.

 

“Mother and I were just discussing work,” Regina says and takes some small satisfaction in watching Zelena’s lips purse and her eyes narrow. She stands and takes three wine glasses from the cabinet. “How’s my brother-in-law?” Zelena’s in the gossip magazines every month parading around town with a new ‘gal pal’ and she has a Ken doll husband who’s never around; she has her suspicions, remembers that even as a teenager Zelena always had these passionate friendships with her best girl friends. However, she’s unwilling to investigate further.

 

After all, if she confirms her suspicions, she might be inclined to feel sorry for her sister.

 

“Perfect,” Zelena says, lips bent into a thin, brittle smile. “He’s in Oregon on business. You know how it goes. Or, I suppose you don’t. How _is_ your love life?” she adds, false sympathy dripping from her lips.

 

“Fine,” Regina says. She hasn’t been on a date that wasn’t Mother-mandated for three years so she’s calling that a win all in all.

 

“You know, children thrive most when they have a mother _and_ a father,” Zelena says.

 

“Henry would have had a father,” Regina says, feeling that grumbling in her bones of deeply repressed anger whenever her family alludes to Daniel, who she cannot help but feel would still be alive if it weren’t for Mother. If Mother hadn’t sent him off to film ‘Surviving Neverland’ in the tropics, if Mother had paid for proper accommodations, if he hadn’t been pressured to continue working when he’d contracted dengue fever, he might have lived. No one dies from dengue fever anymore.

 

(She hadn’t been there, that was the worst part.

 

She’d been preparing for the adoption to come through and while she wouldn’t have missed Henry for the world, she wonders sometimes whether, if she’d been there to support him, Daniel might have survived.)

 

“And I’m thriving plenty,” Henry adds, choosing that moment to enter the lounge and moving to stand beside Regina. She thinks her heart might burst. “Dinner smells awesome, Aunty Zelena,” he adds, which he knows irritates his aunt because she finds ‘Aunty’ too aging for words. Zelena scowls and leads them into the dining room.

 

It is not until they are stopped in traffic on the drive home that she turns to him, reaching out a hand to clasp his briefly. “Thank you,” she says, voice tremulous.

 

He knows what she’s talking about immediately. “Aunty Zelena annoys me,” he says. The light turns green and she drives forward. “Besides,” he adds, into the silence, “you’re my mom. I _have_ to be on your side.”

 

He falls asleep in the car and Regina has to half-carry him to bed. “Sorry,” he mumbles, fumbling as he tries to pull on his pyjamas without assistance.

 

“I’m your mom,” she says, pulling his duvet up over him and kissing his forehead. “I _have_ to do this.”

 

But, despite the moment of connection with her son, she sleeps poorly that night, searching desperately for a scenario wherein Tamara doesn’t become season five’s villain. Cora is single-minded in her approach but she can be pushed in a different direction. She’s managed it in the past.

 

She’ll just have to make someone else more appealing.

 

She arrives at work early, the early morning light grey and weak. She sits, in the editing suite with the files of her girls in front of her. Aside from the inherent racism, she knows why Cora’s zeroed in on Tamara. On paper, she’s the obvious villain—driven, competitive, and quick-tempered. She’s already made a few comments that could earn her the role if edited effectively.

 

She flicks through the names. Ashley’s too weak. Several of Kathryn’s girls might appeal—the cougar perhaps? She bypasses Emma’s file; Cora would never go for that and, besides, Emma could never inhabit the role effectively.

 

Her eye is caught by Rory Rose. There’s a possibility. She’s due a single date today. This would be a perfect time to rebuild her. She gets to work.

 

Obviously the show’s researchers have found out plenty. Rory Rose had a string of boyfriends in Tennessee, all football players and tennis pros. She has two loving parents—Briar and Stefan—who are still together after thirty years of marriage and run a prosperous ranch. She is their beloved only child, doted upon, given everything her heart could ever desire.

 

And then she finds it. Aurora Rose is taking a semester off from her degree, which is not a bachelors as had been assumed, but actually the start of an MFA in creative writing. Their researchers would never have dug this deep, would never have thought it important to look up Rory’s profile on her university website.

 

But Regina does and she realises something. She’s not taking a break from her studies. She’s doing research.

 

To say Rory is surprised to wake up and find Regina sitting in the chair in the corner of her room is an understatement. “What the hell?” she screeches, scrabbling with her bed clothes.

 

“So,” Regina says, phone out in front of her. “I must say, I’m very excited about your debut novel. It sounds _fascinating_.” She reads, expression neutral, almost bored. “ _Aurora Rose’s exciting thesis project is a novel, exploring the darker side of reality television dating shows._ ”

 

Rory grimaces. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you might forget about that,” she says.

 

“I could be persuaded,” Regina says. She speaks slowly and softly, her eyes never leaving Rory. She’s learned manipulation from the best. “But I’ll need something from you in return.”

 

“What?” Rory asks, just a little too eagerly.

 

“A villain,” Regina says.

 

“I’m not a great actor,” Rory says, shifting in her bed. Her nightgown falls down one shoulder, in a practised move, baring creamy skin.

 

“Well, that’s just not true,” Regina says, smirking. “You’re trying to play me right now. I suggest you save it for Mal, dear.”

 

Rory goes white; Regina wouldn’t have thought it possible for her skin to be any paler. “I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Clever of you to assume our researchers would assume Mal was a Malcolm, not a Melissa. Just how accepting are your parents?” Regina asks. “Tennessee isn’t known for its liberal politics.”

 

“You’re evil,” Rory hisses.

 

Regina raises an eyebrow. Rory doesn’t need to know she’d never do it, doesn’t need to know about Ruby Lucas, three seasons ago, who she talked down from coming out as gay on television, doesn’t need to know that Regina’s all talk, that Cora’s the one she really has to fear. “Your choice, dear. I’m sure the audience of ‘True Love’s Kiss’ would embrace a bisexual making a play for their beloved suitor.”

 

“Perhaps you should warn your precious _favourite_ about that,” Rory says, venomous. Regina does not flinch at the allusion to Emma, does not let Rory see that she’s scored a hit, but internally she’s screaming. So others have noticed Emma’s eagerness for her approval, the gazes that linger just a little too long? Rory’s savage grin falters when Regina doesn’t engage.

 

“I have an idea. We could even bring Mal on the show. Just how ‘a little older’ is she than you, dear?” She leans back in her chair. “I’m sure you recognise the promise of the role I’m offering.” She steeples her fingers, waits.

 

And so it is that Regina is able to throw a flash-drive of cut scenes down in front of her mother at the end of the day. “Here’s your villain,” she says. “I think you’ll be very happy.”

 

*

 

_“Nice girls finish last,” Rory says, lips curving up into a smirk. “Isn’t it lucky I’m not nice?”_

 

*

 

“So what happened to Rory?” Emma asks. She’s lying on one of the lounge chairs by the pool and Regina’s sitting beside her, watching the light fade violet in the sky.

 

“I don’t know what you mean, dear,” she says.

 

“It’s like she woke up with a personality makeover,” Emma says. “She told us she made out with the Suitor on their single date today and she’s been making some really cruel comments. I had to talk Ashley down from leaving the show.”

 

“Sometimes,” Regina says, “people find it expedient to play the villain.”

 

“Villains never win,” Emma says.

 

“But they never leave early either,” she replies. “If your motives are… less than pure, it can be a beneficial path.”

 

Emma frowns, looking out across the lake. “I couldn’t do that,” she says.

 

“Of course not,” Regina says and she can’t help the softness encroaching on her voice. “There’s not a false bone in your body.”

 

Emma laughs, though the sound is anything but mirthful. “I wouldn’t say that,” she says. “Everyone has their secrets.”

 

Regina stands, letting her hand rest on Emma’s shoulder for a moment, feeling her hair brush against her pinkie finger. “And yours are safe,” she says.

 

“For now,” Emma replies and Regina cannot disagree. So she just lets her grip tighten for a moment, before leaving.

 

**vi. in which there are two kisses**

 

**_Making Out on ‘True Love’s Kiss’: Kathryn Midas Tells All_ **

_Loyal followers of ‘True Love’s Kiss’_ — _often referred to as TLKers_ — _may have noticed that there’s a fair amount of sucking face on the show. Kathryn Midas, one of the producers of ‘True Love’s Kiss’, gives us the inside scoop._

_1\. It’s super awkward. Don’t be fooled by the sweeping, panoramic shots. “It’s never particularly sexy to kiss someone for the first time with a camera in your face.”_

_2\. Kissing ability is variable. Some of the girls are very experienced, while there is the occasional kissing virgin at the other end of the spectrum. “We had one suitor who started laughing mid-take, because the girl he was kissing didn’t know what she was doing.”_

_3\. Swapping spit can be a literal phrase. “There’s a lot of saliva,” Kathryn tells us. Ick!_

 *

 They’re down to eight girls and the competition’s heating up. “I want to see sex,” Cora tells Regina at their morning meeting and, at her disgusted expression, adds, “not literally, dear.”

 

So Regina prompts the girls to kiss the Suitor. “It’s definitely the right move,” she tells Ashley who is more nervous than she has any right to be, given she’s scheduled for a single date that day, been picked first twice in a row, and has, at twenty-five, been in several serious, long-term relationships before.

 

And so as they sit, watching waves lap at the shore at the end of their single date, eyes set on a horizon where the sun sets red and gold in the sky, Ashley lets herself be kissed on her first single date.

 

“You don’t want him to have a legitimate excuse to drop you,” she tells Tamara who nods, chin clenched stubbornly and, when she wins the pigeon shooting competition on a group date, she uses her alone time with the Suitor to make her move.

 

She says nothing to Emma, not yet. She tells herself that this is the plan, that it’s too soon for Emma to be kissing the Suitor. Endgame doesn’t kiss first. Endgame doesn’t put out on the night alone. But, in the deepest recesses of her mind, she knows that’s not quite why she hasn’t spoken.

 

She hasn’t spoken because, as ridiculous as it is, the idea of Emma kissing the Suitor makes her body tense and her fists clench. The idea of Emma kissing the Suitor makes her snap at her PA. The idea of Emma kissing the Suitor makes her feel as though there’s a hand clutching her heart, squeezing until it grinds to dust.

 

Unfortunately, with as much control as she does have, she isn’t a puppet master because when the Suitor escorts Emma to the gazebo for a private conversation at the pre-elimination cocktail party, Emma stops him at the entrance, clasps his face in her hands and kisses him, fierce and hard.

 

There is an immediate flurry of response from the camera crew and, after a moment’s stunned silence, Regina barks out orders, trying not to think about the desperate way Emma’s hands caress his cheeks, or the swell of her lips when they part, or the scarlet blush in her cheek. “Close up on her face,” she snaps. “For God’s sake, camera one. Her _face_. This is prime time, not Skinemax.” The Suitor looks across at her and she could swear that when their eyes meet, he smirks.

 

For once, Emma does not search her out, seeking approval.

 

Later, she’s distracted as she directs the confessionals. “Oh my God,” Rory says, direct to camera, champagne cocktail in hand and a slur to her words. “What a skank. In full view of all the girls. It’s just, like, inconsiderate.”

 

She’s really getting into character, Regina muses.

 

In a move that surprises approximately no one, least of all Regina who selects the order, Emma is called first to continue on the show. “Emma, will you continue on our journey to true love?” the Suitor asks and she’s pink and proud when she accepts. As he attaches the new charm to her bracelet and kisses her cheek, she smiles at whatever it is he whispers in her ear.

 

“Right,” Regina says. Emma’s standing with the Suitor, and she touches his arm, leaning into him and letting her hair brush against his arm; it’s a move so calculated that Regina feels mildly ill. This isn’t the Emma she knows. “I need you for a confessional.”

 

Emma smiles at him, letting him lean forward and kiss her cheek again. “I’ll see you later, Emma,” he says, grinning, and she giggles, before following Regina to the sitting room with the green screen.

 

“You know the drill,” Regina says, brusque. “Sit. I don’t have all night.”

 

“Are you okay?” Emma asks, eyebrows knitting together. Her teeth worry at her bottom lip.

 

“I’m just perfect, dear,” she says, and she hears her mother in every syllable. “So, how do you feel being called first?” Normally she’d take a seat but today, in spite of her aching feet in heeled pumps, she remains standing.

 

“Wonderful,” Emma says, sighing dreamily. Cora will love that. “I really think we’re building a strong connection.”

 

“After two weeks?” Regina asks.

 

“You don’t believe in love at first sight?” she asks.

 

“You honestly think this is love?”

 

Emma’s cheeks flush scarlet. “I never said that,” she says. “But my parents met in high school and fell in love instantly. Perhaps I’m genetically predisposed.”

 

“That’s ridiculous,” Regina says. “I think you made a supremely calculated move to kiss him because you think he was losing interest.”

 

Emma’s nostrils flare. “Oh, screw you,” she responds. “He’s kissed literally everyone else and I know no one else got this much judgement from you.”

 

“So because everyone else is doing it you made a spectacularly foolish decision,” Regina sneers. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to be a sheep?” And too late, she remembers.

 

“No,” Emma says, going pale. “She didn’t. You know, I’m not really in the mood for this right now.” And she stands, running from the room, just barely missing knocking over a camera as she goes.

 

Regina takes in a deep, gulping breath. “What are you looking at?” she snaps.

 

“Nothing,” Leroy, the cameraman, says, raising an eyebrow. “You want me to hang around? See if you can talk her back here before the night’s over?”

 

“No,” Regina says, sighing. She sits on the vacated couch, defeated. The seat is warm from Emma’s body and she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to block out the world. “Go home. We’ll reshoot in the morning. Can you—”

 

“Consider it deleted,” he says. “Cora so doesn’t need to see that shit show.” The camera crew have always been on her side; she’s Daniel’s girl, even after all these years.

 

She smiles, grateful that at least mother won’t see what amounts to a spectacular temper tantrum, and pulls out her phone, finger hovering over Henry’s name. It’s late. He should be asleep. She just wants to hear his voice; he grounds her, reminds her why she’s here, doing this terrible job, losing herself, and making herself miserable.

 

Rationally, she knows Emma’s decision was not a bad one. She would have preferred it to be more private and at a more romantic moment but, honestly, it was past time for a kiss between the ‘endgame’ couple.

 

She shouldn’t be this angry. She knows how this works.

 

She eases herself off the confessional couch. She’ll have to smooth this over. Emma’s never going to trust her if she doesn’t and that could be disastrous when she makes the final four and she’ll need her trust more than ever. Her knock at Emma’s bedroom door is tentative and seems to echo down the corridor. The door opens a crack and when Emma sees her she tries to close it but she sticks her foot in the way. “Please,” she says.

 

“You’re the boss,” Emma says and steps aside to let her in. She’s dressed for bed, in a tank top and loose sweatpants, face wiped free of makeup and hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. Her lips have narrowed into a thin line and Regina sees her jaw twitch.

 

“I’m sorry,” Regina says, picking up the short black dress from its position crumpled at the end of her bed and re-hanging it.

 

“What for?” Emma asks. “I kissed him because I panicked. I was getting called last—or near enough. Everyone else had done it.” She laughs, the sound hollow. “Might as well cave to peer pressure.”

 

“No,” Regina says. “I’m sorry I hurt you. My comments were insensitive. I didn’t think...” She stops because what else is there to say really? She didn’t think, she reacted, and that is deadly in this business.

 

Emma shrugs. “I’ve had worse thrown at me than ‘spectacularly foolish decision’.”

 

“I meant the—”

 

But Emma cuts in over her. “It’s been a really long day,” she says. “I forgive you. There. Is there anything else?” She turns away, her body language dismissive.

 

Regina steps forward, hand splayed across Emma’s shoulder. She feels her shoulder blades with the tips of her fingers, feels her body tense beneath her palm. “Emma,” she says, and her voice shakes. “Look at me.”

 

Emma turns and she looks so tired, dark circles beneath her eyes and skin an unhealthy skim milk colour. “It was nothing, Regina,” she says. “Go home to your son.”

 

But Regina’s eyes are fixed on Emma’s lips. This close, she can see the thin lines in the pink skin, the sharp curve of the upper lip, and the soft pout of her lower lip. Her breath catches. “It wasn’t nothing,” she says and her hand reaches out, fingers sweeping back a curl of hair, her fingers brushing against the smooth skin of her neck as she does so.

 

Something inside Emma seems to snap and she surges forward, lips meeting Regina’s, rough and angry. She tastes of peppermint toothpaste and her lips are rough and chapped, and Emma is _kissing_ her and Regina could do this forever, locked in Emma’s kiss, in a world without cameras and suitors and mothers who expect the world.

 

“I can’t,” Emma says, pulling apart, forehead resting against Regina’s. Her breathing is ragged and Regina realises she’s crying. “This can’t ruin things.”

 

And so Regina does what she does best. “It won’t,” she says, holding Emma close to her, rubbing circles into her back as she sobs into her shoulder. “You’re emotional. These things happen.” The words taste like chalk, but she says them because it’s the right thing to say.

  
“I’m sorry,” Emma says and she repeats it over and over again, “ _sorrysorrysorry_ ,” her words blending into one continuous, harsh line.


	4. CHAPTER FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Maia and Mari.

**vii. in which fences are mended in three-quarter time**

 

**_Spotted: Sidney Glass Entering the TLK Mansion!_ **

_Dance impresario, Sidney Glass, was spotted sneaking into the mansion for reality TV ‘True Love’s Kiss’. The celebrity dance instructor, who has been a choreographer and guest judge on ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ and ‘Dancing With the Stars’, has been a guest on the show in the past, teaching the hopefuls how to impress the suitor with their rhythm._

_One can only hope that the girls dance better than last season’s competitors. We’ll always remember Merida Dunbroch’s embarrassing faceplant at the ‘True Love’s Kiss’ fairytale ball last year. Ouch!_

_*_

They re-shoot the confessional the next day, Emma’s enthusiasm muted and Regina maintaining only the thinnest professional veneer. “Thank you,” Regina says when the questioning is through. “I think we have everything we need.” She then moves over to the couch, sitting beside Emma, close enough that their thighs touch. “Are you alright?” She lets her hand hesitantly brush Emma’s forearm, feels the fine hairs beneath her palm.

 

“Fine,” Emma says, shrugging off her touch, and smiles brightly, too brightly, at her, before leaving. It hurts because Emma has always, _always,_ been honest with her.  

 

You’ve known her for two weeks, she thinks. Don’t pretend you _know_ her. Don’t be a fool. But the hurt remains.

 

And so they continue. Over the next week, Emma spends more time with the Suitor. She goes on a group date hiking through Solstice Canyon, and steals a couple of kisses with him in a shaded area along the trail. She continues to flirt with him at the cocktail parties and their relationship is certainly being edited to show their bond growing stronger than ever.

 

Regina adamantly does not care. She cannot care. She is the epitome of professional, helping get the most out of all her girls, Emma included, but she lets Kathryn produce the next group date and she does not dwell when the footage comes back, Emma having won a private moment with the Suitor—and another kiss.

 

Instead, she spends her rare non-working hours tentatively rebuilding with Henry. He’s still sullen at times, too prone to withdrawing from her still, but they cook together one evening she manages to get home from set before six. She teaches him how to make _arroz con gandules_ , something she hasn’t had the time or inclination to make since he was too young to remember. “It was your Abuelo’s favourite,” she says, plating the rice dish with slices of roasted pork. “I don’t have the same knack for it, I’m afraid.”

 

Henry scoops up a bit of rice in his fingers. “It’s good, Mom,” he says, through his mouthful, and she doesn’t tell him off for eating with his hands.

 

It’s not enough. It’s not perfect, but it’s a start.

 

She forgets though, in focusing her attentions on Henry, that the girls will be learning to dance—and at their lesson, the worst thing possible happens. Sidney Glass, as he does every season, arrives to train the girls. That night they will attend a ball, populated primarily by crew and hired extras bound by NDAs. They will each get to dance with the Suitor and at the end of the evening, he will eliminate two girls, not one, leaving the show with six.

 

This double elimination is a pivotal episode and Cora insists that Regina produce it. “Kathryn’s inexperienced,” she says at their meeting the morning of rehearsal. “Green. I won’t have the fairytale ball ruined by a novice.”

 

“She’s hardly inexperienced, Cora,” Regina says, jaw clenching. “But certainly I can produce.”

 

It’s calming almost, the soft three-quarter time, the swish of skirts and click of heels against wood, the giggles as the girls get it wrong. They learn to dance with each other, taking turns at leading, and for a moment the competitive mess gets swept aside as the girls make fools of themselves and enjoy the lessons.

 

She remembers teaching Henry to dance, last year on her return home from filming this same episode. She had pushed the couches back to the walls in the living room and she’d found a CD of waltz music. He had giggled just as much as the girls are today, and she’d whirled him around the room, leading even though he had tried to insist it was his job.

 

The room had been bathed in light, Henry’s laughter warmer than even the fiercest sun, and she had been so happy.

 

She is forced from her reverie by Sidney. “She’s doing it all _wrong_!” their dance instructor exclaims. “Regina, darling, come here.”

 

Regina steps forward from behind the camera. “Yes?”

 

“You know the waltz, don’t you?”

 

“Of course,” she says. Cora’s daughters were nothing if not accomplished. She had been a debutante in her time.

 

So had Zelena. She remembers being eleven, watching her big sister, dressed in a puffy white gown, glide down the spiral staircase, arm-in-arm with her father. “This will be you soon, dear,” her mother had whispered, her grip on her arm white-tight as if worried Regina would bolt out onto the dance floor and ruin things, while Regina watched her fairy princess sister spin around the ballroom with her partner like a dandelion in the wind.

 

(She also remembers the bottle of vodka, remembers holding back Zelena’s orange hair as she’d puked her guts out in their shared bathroom, sobbing about how “that bitch Glinda” ruined her life. She had rubbed her back and hoped their mother didn’t hear.)

 

“Partner up with Miss Swan,” Sidney says. Emma has been dancing with Tamara and the pair of them are laughing so hard that Tamara is struggling to stand upright and Emma’s cheeks are red, her brow sweaty.

 

“Oh!” Regina feels her cheeks heat up. “I’m not sure I remember—” She tugs at her skirt, a pencil skirt that is hardly suitable for a waltz.

 

But Sidney has moved on, taking on Tamara as his partner, and Emma stands in front of her, suddenly quite serious. “Hi,” she says, scuffing one heeled foot against the ground. “You don’t have to do this.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Regina says, stiffening her spine and holding out a hand. “I won’t have you being eliminated because you make a fool of yourself at the ball.”

 

Emma takes her hand, her touch light, and places her other hand on Regina’s shoulder. Regina lets her own hand snake around Emma’s waist, fingers splayed, and touch tentative. The thin tank top is no barrier to Emma’s skin and she can feel warmth radiate from her. “I’ll lead. All you have to do is follow.”

 

When they begin, Emma glances at her feet and nearly trips. “Sorry,” she mumbles. “I’m shit at this.”

 

“Look up,” Regina says in response. Emma looks determinedly over her left shoulder. “No, at me. Trust yourself.” Somehow, it feels like she’s not talking about dancing. “This is literally the easiest dance in the universe. Even my sister managed it at her debutante ball.”

 

“You have a sister?” Emma asks. Then, “you were a _debutante_?”

 

“Focus,” Regina says. “One-two-three, one-two-three.” They move, slowly but surely, around the room and Regina’s focus is entirely on Emma, leaving every other girl to Kathryn. “Yes, I have a sister. She won the first season of ‘True Love’s Kiss’.”

 

“The redhead in the gossip magazines?” Emma asks. Her index finger strokes against Regina’s own.

 

“That would be Zelena,” Regina says tightly.  

 

“You don’t sound like you like her much,” Emma says and her grip on Regina’s hand tightens momentarily.

 

“It’s… complicated,” Regina says and then snorts. “ _She’s_ complicated.”

 

“Aren’t families always?” Emma says, and her eyes speak such understanding. For a time, they dance in silence.

 

Rory, who is dancing with a very nervous Ashley, glares at her. As she has become more accustomed to the role of villain, she has taken to glaring and making snippy remarks whenever their paths cross, her face a mask of betrayal. Regina knows she did something unforgivable in threatening to out her however much she has tried to justify it since, and she wishes she could stop the spiral of terrible, impossible choices she feels forced to make in service of the show.

 

Marian would be furious with her if she knew, but then Marian hates everything about her job to the point where Regina doesn’t discuss it with her beyond generalities anymore.

 

She schools her face into impassivity and returns her attention to Emma. “Careful,” she says, steadying her as Emma hooks her foot behind Regina’s and nearly falls.   

 

When the music ends, Emma says, “I think I’ve got the hang of it. At least, enough not to make a total idiot of myself.”

 

“At dancing anyway,” Regina says and they share a smile, tentative but hopeful she thinks.

 

“Regina, I need you,” Kathryn says, and the moment is lost.

 

She definitely doesn’t watch the footage later. She definitely doesn’t search out shots of her dancing with Emma, finding the flashes of scarlet that signal Emma’s appearance. She definitely doesn’t notice the smile that lights up Emma’s face in a brief moment when Regina’s attention is elsewhere, busy as she was shouting an instruction at Ashley over Emma’s shoulder.

 

They film the ball that night. Regina has swapped out her high heels for ballet flats, and regrets it when she realises how tiny she is in contrast with everyone else on set. Leroy pats her on the head. “Look at you, sister.”

 

“Still taller than you, Leroy,” she says and he grumbles but desists.

 

While on screen this will look wonderfully romantic, all glittering fairy lights, sequined gowns and dancing, the reality is somewhat different. There are cameras everywhere. Dances are stopped and repeated as shots are taken. The music is tinny, to be edited over later.

 

And throughout it all, Regina focuses her attention on Emma. When it comes time for her to dance with the Suitor, she approaches her. “You’re up,” she says into Emma’s ear. Emma’s jaw stiffens. “Just let him lead,” she says. “You’ve got this.”

 

Emma nods, touches Regina’s bicep, and departs in a swirl of white. “I can’t believe she’s wearing white,” Rory says, sneering, and then whispers, “villainous enough for you?” as she passes Regina.

 

But Regina can’t be upset right now. She’s spellbound; Emma’s hair is curled loose around her shoulders, wreathed in white roses, and the dress nips her waist before flaring out, and when she dances, the fabric seems to dance with her. She watches her waltz with the Suitor and they fit together beautifully, him leading, Emma following. Everything is as it should be.

 

Tamara sidles up to her, her dress a rich, dark red, silk skirts rustling as she walks. She is all sinuous grace and cool elegance. “You want some advice?” she asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall.

 

Regina raises an eyebrow. “Are we not shooting things to your liking?”

 

“You need to be careful,” she says. “The way you look at Emma… I like the girl, or at least, she’s not as bad as some of the idiots here, but she’s so tied up in pleasing people, she’ll never go after what she wants.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Regina says, her smile forced.

 

“You had my back,” Tamara says and Regina knows in that moment that Tamara had known exactly where Cora was manoeuvring her. Her betrayal of Rory (and in so doing, the betrayal of her own sexuality) _has_ to be worth it for Tamara, to avoid yet another villainised woman of colour on the show.

 

(The desperate justifications stick in her throat.)

 

She returns her gaze to Emma in the arms of the Suitor and when their dance ends, Emma looks over at Regina, catching her eye, seeking her approval.

 

**viii. in which a school project sets healing in motion**

 

**_Heartbreak for ‘True Love’s Kiss’ Power Couple_ **

_Fans were shocked and dismayed when Belle French and Gaston Beaumont called off their eighteen month long relationship last week._

_A friend of Belle’s told the magazine, “They just weren’t compatible anymore. Belle’s not into superficial things and Gaston’s kind of… Well, ‘conceited’ sounds rude, doesn’t it?”_

_Gaston and Belle have always been the most unusual of the ‘True Love’s Kiss’ couples, the beautiful bookworm not being Gaston’s typical choice in woman, if his other favourites_ — _buxom blondes the lot of them_ — _are any indication._

_This is the second of four ‘True Love’s Kiss’ couples to not go the distance. One has to wonder about the long term success of the programme in light of these break ups._

*

She is at work when she gets the phone call. It’s busy, her phone buzzing in her pocket while she directs the current scene and she contemplates ignoring it but, what if something has happened to Henry? “Excuse me,” she murmurs to Kathryn, and moves away from set, taking a seat in a quiet corner of the garden before answering. They are down to the final five—Emma, Tamara, Ashley, Rory and another one of Kathryn’s girls, Anna—and tensions are rising. Even Ashley has been snapping at people lately. The last thing anyone needs is a phone call disrupting.

 

“Regina Mills speaking,” she says.

 

“Yes, hello, Ms Mills,” says a cold, carefully modulated voice down the line. “I’m Mrs Tremaine, Henry’s teacher.”

 

Her heart constricts, feeling as though a claw grips it. “What’s happened? Is he sick?” She has visions of Henry with a broken leg, a concussion, a black eye, and she feels her pulse speed up and her body tense.

 

“Actually, I’m calling about his homework,” Mrs Tremaine says. She’s stiff, his teacher, and she knows Henry hasn’t warmed to her. It’s all in what he _doesn’t_ say; even at his most surly and uncommunicative he has kept her up to date about his new clarinet tutor and his gym teacher, but he has remained silent about his fifth grade teacher. “He had a project due yesterday and was most unhelpful when asked where it was.”

 

“That’s not like Henry,” Regina says carefully. Henry is a perpetual teacher pleaser, the first to hand in his homework, says ‘thank you’ at the end of every lesson, the sort of child who spends hours at the end of the school year crafting the perfect card to go along with the thoughtful gift he picked out.

 

“I spoke to his fourth grade teacher and she agreed with that assessment,” Mrs Tremaine says, though there is a dubious quality to her voice that Regina doesn’t appreciate. “I am worried about his attitude this year. He seems… withdrawn.”

 

Regina counts to five, steadies her breathing. “We’re having a difficult time just now,” she says. “I’ll speak with him tonight and you can expect his project tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you,” Mrs Tremaine replies and hangs up.

 

Regina feels herself shaking. She mustn’t look well when she returns to set because the moment filming halts for a short recess, Emma approaches her. “Are you alright?”

 

She nods, feeling the chill seep into her bones. “Fine. Henry—”

 

“Is he sick?” Emma’s eyes widen, frantic. Henry has been coming to set on weekends and Emma has spent considerable time with him, the awkwardness between her and Regina not translating into her relationship with Henry, which has turned into a firm friendship. She’d entered what is now fondly referred to on set  as ‘Henry’s Room’ the previous Saturday to find the pair playing charades, Henry laughing so hard at Emma’s miming of ‘Jurassic Park’ that he couldn’t get the words out between wheezes.

 

“No,” she says, placing a steadying hand on Emma’s forearm. “Just a bit of trouble at school.”

 

“Oh.” Emma lets out a breath and pauses a moment. “His teacher sounds like a straight-up bitch though.”

 

Regina laughs. It’s watery; she’s still shaken from the shock of the phone call and what, for that one nightmarish moment, she had imagined it to mean. “I need to go,” she says and Emma nods. “I have to—this isn’t like Henry.”

 

She gives her apologies to Kathryn, who promises to cover for her if Cora shows up. “You’ve saved my ass often enough,” she says, before moving off to talk with Rory about her dress for the ceremony tomorrow that will cull numbers from five to four. Kathryn is really too kind for reality television, she reflects on the drive home. It’s her second season on ‘True Love’s Kiss’ and, while competent, she hasn’t yet developed the manipulative streak needed to make it in the industry.

 

Secretly Regina hopes she never does. She wouldn’t wish this on anyone.

 

She arrives just before Henry, contacting the nanny to let her know she’s not needed that afternoon. So, when the front door slams, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, a rapidly cooling mug of coffee clasped in her hands. She hears the thud of a school bag, of Henry’s shoes hitting the floor as he kicks them off. “Henry, in here,” she calls out, voice echoing into the stillness.

 

Silence. Then Henry slouches into the kitchen. “Why are you home?” he asks.

 

“I think you know, Henry,” she says.

 

“Mrs Tremaine called, didn’t she?” His hands are clenched into fists at his side and he scuffs his left foot against the floor, looking down.

 

“She did,” she says. “Sit. Explain.”

 

“I just didn’t do my homework,” he says, shrugging and remaining in the doorway.

 

Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. “And why not?” she asks.

 

“Couldn’t be bothered,” he replies.

 

Her breathing quickens and she feels her nostrils flare, her whole body tense. “This is unacceptable,” she says, and she can feel her lips thin, feel herself becoming more like her mother. “I expect better of you, Henry.”

 

“Why?” he shoots back. “You’re never around anyway. You don’t care.”

 

“How dare—” she hisses and she hears her voice shake, quavering and wet. Tears prick her eyeballs. “How can you say that? Go to your room and complete that homework. And you’re grounded for two weeks.”

 

“I _hate_ you,” he hisses and then he whirls around and runs, feet stomping on the stairs. She hears the door to his room slam shut and she starts to cry, grief and exhaustion welling up in her, deep, wracking sobs. She tastes salt on her lips and her nose runs and when she dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex, it comes away stained with black.

 

All these years, worrying that she doesn’t measure up, constantly concerned she’s doing the wrong thing, trying her best on her own. Cora sure as hell hadn’t been any support after Daniel died, when she’d been struggling under the dual weight of grief and new motherhood. “Come back to work, dear,” was all she’d said.

 

And now, after everything, her son hates her.

 

She feels empty when the tears stop, her stomach grumbling, and she realises she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. The thought of food makes her feel nauseous, in spite of her hunger, but Henry might well be hungry. She can play the role of the good mother at least, so she re-cooks frozen tamales—made in a giant batch with Marian for her thirtieth birthday just a couple of months ago—and makes Henry a mug of sweetened peppermint tea.

 

In the hallway, she stops because Henry’s schoolbag is still flung on the ground, slumped and battered. How useful when he is supposed to be doing homework, she thinks wryly. Placing the food and drink on the stairs, she picks up his backpack and opens it, pulling out his homework book. Opening it to the final used page, she reads the glued in worksheet.

 

The assignment is to draw a family tree and—oh God. She is going to crush that vicious troll of a teacher’s heart into dust.

 

She tucks the exercise book under her arm and climbs the stairs, balancing the tea and plate of food. At his door, she knocks tentatively with the toe of her shoe and then pushes the door open. “May I come in?”

 

Henry is on his bed, lying on his stomach, with a book open in front of him. If his red-rimmed eyes and the Kleenex on his bedside table are any indicator, he’s not reading. “Whatever,” he mutters.

 

“I thought you might like a snack,” she says. “Dinner might be a little while.”

 

“Not hungry,” he says and then his stomach emits a loud rumbling sound.

 

She sets the food and tea on his bedside table, clearing the Kleenex into the trash, and sits at the end of his bed. “I found your homework book,” she says, clutching the book to her chest. “How long have you had this assignment?”

 

“Two weeks,” he mumbles. And, God, two weeks. Two weeks to stew over this, to let it gnaw away at him and fester.

 

She’s silent, the only sound Henry’s snuffling breathing and the muffled noise of their neighbours returning home. Then, she speaks. “I think we’ve been tiptoeing around this long enough. I’m sorry, Henry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry you had to hear that you were adopted from Grandmother.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, twisting around to look at her. His eyes are swollen and red with tears.

 

“I—” She stops, platitudes on the tip of her tongue. “I was afraid,” she admits. “I was afraid that what’s happened between us would have happened.”

 

He sits up. “So you lied to me.”

 

“I know,” she says. “And it kills me that you have this idea that you’re not wanted. I have always wanted you, more than anything in the world, and I will always love you, even when you don’t do your homework.” Her hand finds his sock-clad foot, and she squeezes. When he was a toddler he had been incredibly ticklish on the soles of his feet and she remembers his screeches and shrieks when they’d played Tickle Monster. “Especially then.”

 

He looks over at her and he’s crying again and she feels her own tears form and then they’re both sobbing. “I didn’t mean it,” he says, between gulping cries. “I don’t hate you.”

 

She pulls him into a hug, his tears and snot dampening her shirt. “My darling boy,” she whispers. “My little prince.”

 

The tamales are lukewarm and greasy and the tea stone cold by the time Henry has let out months of pent up emotion. “Come on,” she says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s order pizza and I’ll help you with your family tree.” She doesn’t mention that she will be sending a tersely worded email to the school administrators about the lack of sensitivity in such a school project. Henry certainly won’t be the only child for whom family is a touchy subject.

 

So they sit on cushions at the coffee table, eating pepperoni pizza with their fingers. One of her father’s old Héctor Lavoe records plays softly in the background and she has photo albums spread out across the table. This is Henry’s family and she will remind him of that. “Mom,” he asks, ruling a neat line between Cora Mills and Henry Morales. “Who was she?”

 

“Who?” He just stares at her, his look of incredulity so very like her own. “Oh, your biological mother? I don’t know, sweetheart. It was a closed adoption. That means the records are sealed.”

 

“I know,” he says and she’s reminded that he’s not a toddler anymore, that he’s old enough to do his own research. He frowns, lips twisting. “I just, why didn’t she want me?” He picks a piece of pepperoni from a slice of pizza and nibbles at it, staring down at his page.

 

“I don’t know,” she says. If it were up to her she would have a better story to tell, of a mother desperate to keep Henry but tragically killed. If it were up to her she would never have to think about the woman who gave Henry up but it’s what Henry wants, what he needs. “If it were me though, I’d want you to have your best chance.”

 

And Henry curls in next to her, nuzzling his head against her arm and points at an image in the photo album in front of them. “Is that really Abuelo when he was a teenager?”

 

She smiles, index finger stroking the tidy, handwritten script beside the picture, her father’s handwriting. _Henry, 1968, San Juan._ “He was so proud of it,” she says. “He never quite forgave Mother for making him shave it off.” Henry giggles. The healing begins.

  
The next day, two things happen. Emma Swan officially makes the final four girls and Cora allays Regina’s concerns before she has even had a chance to express them, suggesting that she bring Henry along with her when she travels across to Maine to produce the home visit.


	5. CHAPTER FIVE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Bailey and Mari for your help with parts of this.

  1. **in which Emma Swan spends the night**



 

**_Blind Item_ **

_September 21st, 2015. This former reality TV contestant and daughter of a Hollywood big shot has sapphic inclinations. She has been seen around LA with different women, and acting very touchy-feely. Some might wonder whether her husband is really away ‘on business’ or if there’s something more going on._

*

“Be careful,” Marian says. She’s drinking Regina’s wine while Regina packs for Maine because Mulan’s on night shift and she was bored. Regina is well used to this, has come to enjoy these rare moments where Marian shows up at her house in a taxi, bottle of wine in one hand and enough take-out Chinese for twenty in the other.

 

Henry’s currently in his bedroom inhaling eggrolls and pretending to pack.

 

“I’m going to small town Maine,” Regina says, grabbing her toiletries from the bathroom. “Of course, I’ll keep my eye out for rogue lobster…”

 

When she pokes her head out from the en suite, she sees Marian give her a look from her place seated at the end of Regina’s bed. “You know what I mean,” she says. “With Emma.”

 

Regina frowns. She hasn’t told Marian about Emma, not in so many words, but Marian is perceptive. She’s figured it out, not helped by Henry burbling on about Emma any chance he gets. “She’s _such_ a dork,” he’d told Marian. “I can’t believe she’s on that stupid show.” Marian had looked over at Regina at that point, and must have seen something in her eyes because she has been trying to draw feelings out of Regina ever since.

 

But there’s no chance, no way she’s going to admit to it. “I’m always careful,” she says. “You know that.”

 

“I know you don’t fall often but when you do it’s hard,” Marian says. “I don’t want to see my best friend hurt.” The ‘again’ remains unspoken.

 

“New topic,” Regina says. “How’s _your_ love life?”

 

Marian laughs and lets her change the subject, and the rest of the evening is taken up with wine and too much greasy food and Regina laughing so hard her sides hurt. Henry comes in, sees his mother on the floor while Marian performs, with deepest sincerity, a Ricky Martin impersonation, and sighs. “You are so _lame_ ,” he says, steals their fortune cookies, and returns to his bedroom.

 

She falls asleep curled up next to Marian. “Christ, Regina,” Marian mutters, kicking out with icy feet. “Stop spooning me,” but she snuggles into Regina’s embrace nonetheless.

 

The next morning is frantic; she wakes too late and so it’s a rush of bags and breakfast and the car honks outside three times before Regina realises that it’s for them, so intent on checking her list. “That’s our car. Henry!”

 

Henry thumps down the hall and she hears the front door slam. Marian envelops her in a hug. “Love you, _linda_ ,” she murmurs and Regina feels herself get almost  teary in response, which she chooses to blame on the mild hangover.

 

In the car, Henry leans against her, resting his head on her shoulder while she reads her emails. Things aren’t perfect, not by a long shot, but since the incident with the homework assignment they’ve been talking constantly. She makes sure to tell him stories, drags out the photos of him as a baby, answers all his questions as honestly as possible even when they are excruciating.

 

(She’s still blushing about him finding the photo of her from her college days draped over Marian and asking, “were you and Marian _girlfriends_?” and giggling when she’d stammered and stuttered and tried to find an honest yet child-friendly way of describing ‘fuck buddies’.)

 

Emma is at airport check-in when they arrive, scanning the crowds for them, and she grins broadly when she sees them. “Kid! It’s been too long,” she says, dragging him into a one-armed hug. She smiles at Regina over Henry’s head and Regina feels that heaviness in her stomach that speaks to something she isn’t willing to name.

 

“It’s been, like, two days,” Henry says, wriggling out of her embrace but he’s flushed pink in childlike pleasure at being loved.

 

She watches Emma as they go through security. She slips off chucks and there are lions on her red socks and she wiggles her toes, the fabric shifting so it looks like the lions are stretching. There is a hole at her left toe, painted toenail poking through, and Regina smiles before she can stop herself. It’s pathetic how _fond_ she is and Tamara’s warning whirs through her mind.

 

Frowning, she shakes her head, before taking Henry’s hand in her own. She delights in the fact that he doesn’t pull away.

 

After security and the interminable wait at the gate, there’s a whole three hours on the plane to Philadelphia, where she just _talks_ to him. Emma’s seated several rows ahead, though she keeps popping back to chat to Henry and sneak him candy. Regina pretends to disapprove, but she takes a sour patch kid from Henry’s tray table when she thinks he’s not looking. He glares. “Get your own candy, Mom.” In response, she presses slobbery kisses to his cheeks until he squirms away. “Sorry! Sorry!” he cries and throws a starburst at her.

 

He’s exhausted by the time they make it to Philadelphia. They are stuck there overnight, Regina unable to make the connections work, and she hails a cab for the three of them to their hotel. “Adjoining rooms okay?” the woman at the desk asks upon check in and Regina feels her face flush.

 

However, Emma just nods. “Fine.” She bends down and allows Henry to clamber up onto her shoulders. “Oof, you’re heavy, kid.”

 

“Duh,” Henry says, and Emma laughs. Regina is left to wrangle their suitcases but she can’t mind because Henry is giggling, his laughter tinged with exhausted hysteria, Emma jiggling him up and down as she tries, and fails, to keep him on her back. In the end she sets him down and resorts to a fireman’s hold.  

 

There’s an awkward transition, Emma entering their room to deposit a rapidly flagging Henry on one of the beds. “Well,” she says, looking around the space. “See you in the morning.”

 

“Night, Emma,” Henry says, eyes heavily lidded, and reaches up to hug her.

 

Regina watches Emma in this moment, watches her press her lips together, not really sure where to put her hands. Finally she wraps her arms around Henry, returning the hug. “Night, kid,” she murmurs and take a deep breath, before moving abruptly to the next room.

 

Henry’s eyes drift shut and Regina sits at his bedside. “Sweet dreams,” she says, pulling off his shoes and socks and tucking him in.

 

He mumbles something that might be ‘love you’ and then his breathing evens out. Shortly after this, he starts to snore.

 

She watches him for a while before changing for bed.

 

But she can’t sleep. The door to Emma’s room taunts her. Perhaps she could just knock. It wouldn’t hurt to check how she’s doing. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure she’s ready for tomorrow.

 

She knows this is an idiotic idea, but it doesn’t stop her. She knocks softly and waits. She’s halfway back to bed when Emma opens the door.

 

“Is everything okay?” she whispers. She’s wearing a tanktop and red lacy underwear and nothing else and Regina tries desperately not to let her gaze drift.

 

“Fine,” she says. “Just checking you out. I mean, checking that you’re okay. Not—”

 

Emma grabs her wrist and pulls her into the room, effectively silencing her. “Don’t want to wake Henry,” she says, shutting the door behind them.

 

“No,” Regina says. Emma has a hand around her wrist and pulls her to the bed. Regina sits on the edge of it, as far from Emma as she can.

 

Silence, as thick and sticky as molasses, spreads. Eventually, Emma coughs. “Couldn’t you sleep either?”

 

“You can’t sleep?”

 

“Seeing my parents tomorrow,” she says. “Having them meet—” she pauses. “ _Him_.” For a moment, Regina wonders whether that was always meant to be the end of that sentence.

 

“They’ll love him,” she says. “The show’s set up to ensure that.” The Suitor gives good parent; Kathryn’s been coaching him. He knows to be funny, yet not crude. He can balance on the knife’s edge of sticking up for himself and rudeness. He knows to defer to Emma’s mother in all things because, according to all their data, she’s the one in charge.

 

“I haven’t known my parents long,” Emma says, feigning nonchalance. “I sometimes wonder if they’re disappointed in how I turned out. They haven’t said anything...”

 

Regina’s silent for a moment. “If they love you, they’ll just want you to be happy.”

 

“Does _your_ mother?”

 

Her fingers dig into the quilt overlay of the bed. She thinks of Zelena, stuck in a ‘happy ever after’ of her mother’s own creation, of her own sad life. “No,” she says eventually. “But it’s all I want for Henry.”

 

Emma’s body is tense and hunched. She clenches and releases her hand. She bites her lower lip, skin whitening around the ident. “They don’t love me,” she mutters. “Not really.”

 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Regina says. She shifts closer, placing a tentative arm around Emma’s shoulder. Her heart beats loudly.

 

“It’s not their fault,” she says. “I’m not honest with them. I can’t—”

 

“You can,” Regina says and in this moment she’s not thinking about her job at all. “You can be whoever makes you happy. Fuck them if they don’t get that.”

 

Emma stares at her like she’s something precious, like she can’t quite believe Regina is real. She stares until Regina starts to feel self-conscious and moves to stand, but Emma touches her forearm, staying her. “And if who I am is someone who likes girls? What would you say to that?”

 

Regina’s throat feels dry. “I’d say, ‘drop out of the show and find someone who you could love’.”

 

“I think—” She stops, pauses, considers, and then, every movement laden with intent, she inches forward, breath warm against Regina’s skin. Regina hardly breathes; she can hear her heart pounding, can feel the pulse and flex of tensed muscles. Emma’s hand caresses her cheek. “Did you know,” she says, her thumb brushing against Regina’s lips, “you’re the only person who’s ever looked out for me?”

 

And she kisses her.

 

“Oh!” Regina cries when Emma’s lips move lower, burning against her skin. She shudders when Emma kisses from neck to clavicle, presses kisses to Regina’s skin until she’s shaking and hot, eases her back onto the bed. Her fingers play at the buttons of Regina’s pyjama shirt.

 

“I,” Emma says, straddling her as she tries to sit up, “love,” and she admires the swell of Regina’s breasts, a finger lazily tracing circles to the skin until Regina keens with need, arching up into her touch, “women.” And she continues to kiss a path down Regina’s body, tongue circling a nipple.

 

Regina’s brain has disappeared to a far off continent at this point. She feels throbbing and wet between her legs, the intensity building with every touch. It’s all she can do to shrug her shirt off, before falling back once more, helpless to Emma’s ministrations.

 

And when Emma’s hand skirts lower still, past her bellybutton, past the wiry hairs at the apex of her thighs, fingers dipping into slick heat, thumb flicking at her clit, she jerks and trembles.

 

It’s barely any time at all before she’s coming with a screech muffled by a hand over her mouth.

 

This might be the worst mistake she has ever made in her life she thinks as she pulls Emma forward into a fierce kiss but, right now, it feels pretty damn good.

 

  1. **in which a home visit proves traumatic**



 

**_An Interview with Cora Mills, Queen of Reality TV_ **

_Many have suggested that this season of ‘True Love’s Kiss’ is a make or break one for executive producer, Cora Mills. Her show has been marred with complaints of racism and misogyny. There have been suggestions of lawsuits, settled out of court, accusations that the show manipulates its contestants into eating disorders and sexual behaviour, and that the concept of the show encourages women to hate one another._

_When confronted with the suggestion, Cora Mills simply laughed. “My own daughter is a producer on the show,” she said, leaning back in the antique leather chair behind her desk. “She’s of Puerto Rican descent_ — _and female obviously. We at ‘True Love’s Kiss’ are very supportive of women and people of colour.”_

_In fact, Cora posits, the show is an overtly feminist one. “Too long women have been told to let men make the first move,” she says. “The contestants on our show are encouraged to be upfront and honest about what they want from life.”_

*

She is back in her room, in her own bed, by dawn, Henry none the wiser. He wakes up, groggy, to the sound of her alarm and smiles over at her. “We gotta go?”

 

“Afraid so, sweetheart,” she says, brushing damp hair back behind her ears. “Shower’s free.”

 

She hasn’t slept much at all. She spent the night watching Emma sleep, watching her chest rise and fall, her eyelids flutter, the way her anxieties seem eased by sleep. She spent the night thinking about what this means and can’t seem to come to any sort of conclusion.

 

When Emma enters their room, she’s grateful Henry’s the only person there and he’s wrapped up in some video game, because it has to be so obvious that things have changed between them. Regina isn’t capable of schooling her face and Emma’s smile is like fire and sunshine, the warmth of it almost too much.

 

While waiting for their flight, Emma whispers, “I’ll tell them this afternoon, and then I’ll leave the show,” and Regina reaches out and squeezes her hand. That thought carries her through the flight and into Bangor, where a car meets them.

 

As their car gets closer to Storybrooke, Emma tenses increasingly, fingers drumming against her thigh. “Well,” she says when they stop at a small wooden house just past main street. “Here we are.” She takes in a couple of deep breaths and opens the door to the car.

 

Regina stands at her side. “Cute house,” she says, looking up at the wooden lace around the verandah and the pale blue skirtings and shutters. It’s a house that’s trying too hard to seem homely; she half expects birds to fly out and sing a charming tune to welcome them.

 

In a whir of pastel, a woman barrels past Regina and Henry to throw her arms around Emma. “Emma, sweetheart,” she says. “Look at you!” And just as Regina thinks she is about to say something positive, she rolls up the sleeves of her cardigan and adds, “have you been getting enough sleep? You look tired. And so thin!”

 

Emma seems to shrink in on herself. “They’ll do my makeup, Mary Margaret,” she says. “This is Regina Mills, my—the producer and her son, Henry. Regina, Henry, this is my mother, Mary Margaret Nolan.” Mary Margaret is a small woman, short dark hair streaked with grey, and with a smile like she’s a Disney princess that she now directs at Regina and Henry.

 

Regina holds out a hand. “Delighted to meet you, Mrs Nolan,” she says. “Now, we need to get everything set up.”

 

“Oh, the film crew arrived half an hour ago,” Mary Margaret says. “And the executive producer is here, such a nice lady.”

 

Mother.

 

She feels the grip on her heart tighten and strides forward, past Mary Margaret and into the house, where she finds Cora at the Nolans’ kitchen table, tapping at her phone. “What are you doing here, Cora?”

 

“Honestly, Regina,” Cora says, standing, and she seems to tower over her in spite of them being of a height. “I’m simply here to support you.”

 

For one horrifying moment she wonders whether Cora found out what happened in Emma’s hotel room. But she can’t possibly have and, at any rate, there is no time to sound her out because Emma enters the house, Henry’s hand clasped in hers. “Dad and I have an excellent video game collection,” she says. “You can hang out in the den.”

 

Mary Margaret follows them. “Emma, I laid out a few dresses on your bed,” she says. “There are cookies if anyone wants them.” Regina glances over at the kitchen, where there is a plate of cookies she’s willing to bet are fresh from the oven.

 

Henry shoots her a pleading look and she nods. “Just the one.”

 

Mary Margaret smiles. “Let me spoil him, dear,” she says and wraps an arm around Henry’s shoulder. “Now, tell me all about yourself.” Henry follows her and Regina tries not to worry. Something about Mary Margaret Nolan unsettles her, and perhaps it is coloured by Emma’s desperate desire to please her, but she doesn’t trust the woman.

 

She shakes it off. “Emma, let’s choose your dress,” she says and follows Emma down the hall.

 

Emma’s bedroom is a tiny space, barely room for a single bed, and lacks any personalisation, just as likely to be a guest room. “This is me,” Emma says. “I’m looking at getting my own place,” she adds, shuffling.

 

“It’s…” Small, she wants to say. An afterthought of a room. “Cosy. So, the dresses?”

 

There are three dresses laid out on the bed and the first thing Regina notices is that they are all in varying pastel shades. “Mary Margaret—Mom—likes this one,” she says, holding up a pale pink brocaded dress, knee length and with a ‘V’ neckline. “She wore it on her first date with my father.”

 

Regina resists the urge to say ‘of course she did’. It reminds her of those hideous roses, of the pink shirt Emma had worn on her first single date. Instead, she nods. “Perhaps you could wear something more _you_.”

 

“I’m doing this for my mother,” Emma says. “If I’m going to break her heart, at least—” She stops, index finger stroking the belt of the dress.

 

“Sorry,” Regina murmurs and turns away when Emma pulls off her tanktop, seeing a flash of a black lace bra before she does so. “Do you want me to leave?”

 

Emma just laughs though. “When you grow up in foster homes you don’t get to have body shame.” She hears the rustle of fabric as jeans are removed and the dress pulled on. “Zip me up.”

 

Regina gulps when she turns and sees Emma, dress gaping at the back. Pushing blonde curls over her shoulder, her fingers trail up Emma’s spine, lingering at the clasp of her bra. She presses a kiss to her exposed neck and hears a sharp intake of breath at the touch. “It’s too dangerous,” Emma murmurs.

 

“Your mother won’t burst in, will she?” Regina asks.

 

Emma sighs. “Not that sort of dangerous,” she says and leans back into Regina’s touch.

 

“Later,” Regina says, and in her voice is a promise.

 

The next hour is frenetic, Regina busy with the camera crew, with lighting, with the hundreds of insignificant details. During this time, Emma’s father arrives home with two children, Emma’s much younger siblings, and she goes through the details of what will happen with him.

 

“The Suitor will spend some time with you all as a family,” she explains. “Then they’ll spend some time alone and we’ll finish up with you having private chats with each of them.” David Nolan nods, and the little girl on his shoulders rocks back and forward with the movement, giggling.

 

Emma is sent outside when the Suitor arrives in order to give the illusion that they’ve arrived together. Regina reluctantly lets Cora prep them, to get Emma talking about on camera what he can expect from her family, while she positions the Nolans, and sets up talking heads. “What are you expecting from him?” she asks.

 

Mary Margaret leaps in. “Oh, we’re so excited to meet the man who’s captured our Emma’s heart,” she says.

 

Her son makes a gagging sound and Regina decides in that moment that Neal Nolan is her favourite.

 

The doorbell rings.  “Camera two ready,” she says. David strides forward.

 

It’s picture perfect, the hustle and bustle of Emma being greeted by her parents as though they haven’t seen her in years, of the Suitor being welcomed into their home.

 

“I own a health food business,” he says. “I started up the company five years ago. Emma tells me you’re sheriff?”

 

David nods crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. “Emma’s my deputy,” he says. “Though I’m sure she’d be happy to work elsewhere.” The look he gives the Suitor is anything but subtle.

 

Emma shoots Regina a desperate look. Regina ignores it. She’s very aware that Cora’s eyes are fixed on her. She’s not sure exactly why Cora is here but it is definitely _not_ to support Regina.

 

“So,” Emma says, standing at Regina’s gestured direction and holding out a hand to the Suitor. “Why don’t I show you around Storybrooke?”

 

They stroll down the main street, wind whipping at their cheeks and Regina has never been more grateful for her coat than at this moment. She watches them. They’re getting some good footage and she supposes it’ll just make it all the more upsetting for audiences when Emma leaves the competition. The Suitor pulls off his scarf and wraps it around Emma’s neck, taking the opportunity to kiss her. She shies away and he laughs. “Not into PDAs?”

 

“Not really,” she murmurs and glances back at Regina. He follows her gaze and she affects a neutral expression; she wonders if he knows. He presses another kiss to her lips, taking her by surprise, and laughs again, triumphant. Regina’s hands clench into fists.

 

The pair settle on a bench by the ocean, looking out at sea. “Did you grow up here?” he asks. He has been coached to ask this, already knowing the answer.

 

“I grew up all around,” Emma says. “Mary Margaret and David were teenagers when they had me and I was given up for adoption. It didn’t stick. I was in the system until...well, until I was grown up anyway.” Regina knows she’s thinking about her stint in juvie. “The Nolans only found me a couple of years back.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, throwing an arm around her shoulders and tugging her closer to him.

 

“No,” she says, resting her head against his shoulder. “It’s fine. I have a family. I have a place where I belong. People who care about me.” She looks at Regina as she says this, and that damn smile blossoms. Regina signals for a close up on the expression that suggests Emma Swan is finding happiness.

 

He shivers. “Should we head back?”

 

And that’s when it all goes horribly wrong. Because when they enter the Nolan house again, Henry is not in the den. Instead, he is sitting between Mary Margaret and David on the couch. Cora’s smile is reptilian and she can hear her heart pounding too quickly, can feel her body tense.

 

“Emma,” Mary Margaret says. “We have a surprise for you.” She stands, so giddy with glee she’s practically skipping.

 

Emma frowns. “Okay?” She looks over at the Suitor, who just shrugs, and back at Regina who thinks she might be sick.

 

“The show’s producers did some digging,” Mary Margaret says, handing Emma a piece of paper. Distantly, Regina can see that Leroy’s camera is trained on Emma. “They found your son.” She places a hand on Henry’s shoulder.

 

For a moment, the room is silent, and then Emma looks up from the paper she has been given and lets out a choked sob. “He’s—”

 

Henry is staring at Emma like he’s never seen her before in his life, his brow furrowed, and his face so pale that Regina worries for a moment that he might faint. He did once, when he got his shots before he started school. She had watched his eyes roll back and his little body fall and had felt like her heart might collapse in on itself. She feels this way now, paralysed in fear and anxiety, unable to do anything to stop this whole awful situation from playing out before her.

 

“You’re my birth mom?” Henry asks and his voice shakes. At this, Regina moves forward but is halted by her mother’s grip on her arm, so tight it’s painful.

 

“Do not disrupt this,” she hisses and her voice is stone and steel and Regina is sent tumbling right back to her childhood.

 

“Yeah,” Emma says, voice mechanical. She crumples the piece of paper in her hand. “Yeah, I guess I am.” Henry is pushed forward by a delighted Mary Margaret, and she pulls him into a hug, forced and uncomfortable and very brief.

 

And then she snaps. “Oh God,” she says, pushing back. “I can’t—this is too—” and she runs. A door down the corridor slams.

 

“Mom?” Henry asks and then he’s crying and she jerks away from Cora. She runs to him, kneeling and gathering him in her arms. His tears soak her shoulder.

 

“I’m so sorry, my darling,” she murmurs into his hair, “so sorry, so sorry.” She looks up and meets Cora’s eye and sees nothing but the deepest satisfaction. How long has she known who Henry’s birth mother is?

 

“Regina, dear,” Cora says, and Henry is still trembling in her arms. “We need to finish filming.”

 

“You know what,” Regina says, voice low and tight. “Produce this yourself. I need to take care of my son.”

 

Cora raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be unprofessional, dear.”

 

“After what you just did—” She is shaking as she stands. She remembers the blue flames from the bunsen burners in chemistry class at high school, remembers they burned the hottest, and thinks that she would not be sorry right in this moment to see her mother go up in blue flames, thinks she could quite happily dance in the ashes.

 

“You didn’t know?” Mary Margaret asks. The willful naivety—those wide, horrified eyes and open mouth—makes Regina’s grip tighten on Henry’s shoulder.

 

Cora ignores her. “I did it for the show. Emma meeting her son for the first time is a ratings bonanza. Of course,” she says, eyeing the hall down which Emma disappeared critically, “it would valuable to get more footage. Go and get her and we can orchestrate a stronger first meeting with her son.” She waves a hand, dismissive.

 

She wants to swear, to tell her mother to ‘go fuck herself’, but the steel remains in Cora’s voice. She can’t win, not this fight, but she can protect Henry. “He’s not her son,” she says. “And we’re leaving.” She clasps his hand in hers and they walk out.

 

They find a diner on the main street and she lets Henry order two chocolate milkshakes and they eat fries and cheeseburgers and don’t talk. Dr Hopper has always said how important it is to give Henry time to process. “He’s an intelligent boy,” he had told her after their first session. “He’ll tell you what he needs if you don’t push him.”

 

“Are you okay?” she asks when he’s finished his cheeseburger.

 

Henry frowns. His face is streaked and grimy with tears, but he shrugged off her touch earlier when she tried to wipe his face with a napkin. “No.”

 

The diner is too loud, the sound buzzing in her head, making her feel fuzzy. She picks up a fry, squeezing it between her fingers, feeling the grease seep into her skin. “What can I do?”

 

He takes a fry and dips it into his second milkshake and she grimaces but, honestly, Henry can have whatever the hell he wants right now. “I want to go home,” he says.

 

“That’s what we’ll do then,” she says and contacts the airline to rebook flights. She has managed to get them on a flight from Bangor that will mean they get back to LA sometime after midnight when her phone rings, an unknown number. She answers.

 

It’s Emma. “You knew about this,” she says, and she hears her breathe in a deep, shuddering sob.

 

“No!” Regina exclaims. Henry looks over, and she grimaces. “Emma, I would never—”

 

But she is interrupted. “Liar. That’s your job, to lie about everything. Why would this be any different?” She has never heard Emma sound so cold before.

  
There’s a click and she hangs up, and it is only the anxiety radiating from Henry in waves that makes her hold it together.


	6. CHAPTER SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to Megan and Mari for their advice.

**xi. in which Emma Swan spends the night (redux)**

 

**_Zelena Dishes: Behind Closed Doors_ **

 

_“It’s a strange feeling,” Zelena Greene says, laughing. She crosses her long legs and her startlingly blue eyes sparkle. “After weeks, months, with a camera watching your every move, suddenly you’re alone.”_

_She is, of course, talking about the ‘overnight’ dates in which the final three contestants in ‘True Love’s Kiss’ participate. Booked into the Fantasy Suite at the Hotel Grande, the Suitor and each of his final three gets one night alone, without cameras, producers or any interruptions._

_Of course, many of the contestants choose not to go all the way, and this doesn’t necessarily have to limit their chances. Belle French famously and publicly declined the over-nighter during season three. Eric Anderson was so definitely smitten with Ariel that he and his final three girls all sat up and played scrabble. Zelena rolls her eyes at these reminders. “People lie, darling,” she says, and smirks. “That’s the first thing you should know.”_

_And you? I ask. “A lady never kisses and tells,” she says coyly._

_*_

Cora produces the second home visit. She tries to dissuade Regina from her “spectacularly foolish decision” but Regina fights back, uncomfortable as she is at leaving Tamara in Cora’s clutches.

 

“You used my son,” she says, shifting to move from the living room where Henry is playing video games with Mulan and into the kitchen. Marian, who is seasoning soup, looks over at her and grimaces. “Mother–Cora. I don’t think I can forgive that. I need time with him.”

 

“Fine,” Cora snarls, and Regina can imagine that belligerent set to her lips. “Consider this your sick leave. You’re expected back by the final three.”

 

“Looking forward to it,” Regina says and hangs up. Her heart pounds and she feels as though her throat is about to close up. Pressing her palms against the cool surface of the kitchen bench, she breathes in and out, in and out.

 

“Taste this,” Marian says, holding out a spoon. “Too bland?”

 

It distracts her and she tastes, onion, garlic, pepper bursting on her tongue. It’s chicken soup, Marian’s go to comfort food (“it’s a cliché I know,” she’d said the first time she’d made it for Regina, when Henry was colicky and she was worn to the bone, “but hell if soup doesn’t cure all ills”), and it’s so familiar and homey. “It’s good,” she says and is embarrassed to find tears stand in her eyes.

 

Marian sighs, and replaces the lid on the pot, letting the soup bubble and simmer away. She uncovers a round of dough. “Shape this into rolls.”

 

The mechanics of cutting the risen dough and shaping it into balls is mindless and by the time she’s done, she feels calm enough. Marian covers the dough again and sits her down. “Wine?”

 

She nods. “Please.”

 

Marian hands her a generous glass of chardonnay. “Now, what the hell happened in Maine?” she asks.

 

When she and Henry had arrived at LAX, she’d called Marian to tell her she would be home early. Regina had half-carried Henry into the house, and up the stairs but when she’d put him to bed he’d clung to her, whimpering when she’d tried to leave him for her own room. She’d slept beside him that night in his single bed, lying on her back and staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. She remembered how he’d insisted they be placed absolutely accurately. “No, Mom,” he’d whined, looking intently at one of his books on space because Henry at six had been meticulous. “You’re getting Pleiades all _wrong_. Maia isn’t that close to Merope.”

 

She remembers laughing then, coming down from the step ladder to pull him into a hug.

 

She had woken to Henry’s knee pressed into her bladder and the smell of eggs frying and when she’d made it downstairs Mulan was making breakfast. “Marian had a meeting so she called me,” she’d said, scraping the pan with a spatula, and Regina had almost cried, only holding back because Mulan’s never had much tolerance for emotional scenes.

 

Marian has been remarkably thoughtful about not pushing Regina but it was only a matter of time before she finally asked. And Regina tells her everything.

 

“God,” Marian says when she’s done. “Poor kid. Poor Emma. Poor _you._ ” She glances over at the doorway to the living room, video game music sounding distantly.

 

Regina sighs, downs the glass of wine. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

“Quit your job,” Marian says and Regina laughs, the sound hollow.

 

“And do what?”

 

“Shit, I don’t know,” she says. “Anything. Become a barista, sweep streets. Anything has to be better for you than being ground into dust under Cora’s thumb.”

 

Regina sighs. “I have to think about Henry,” she says, twisting a leftover knob of dough in her fingers.

 

“You’re scared,” Marian says. “I get it, but don’t use Henry as an excuse. Regina, you can’t keep giving up pieces of yourself for that toxic trash show. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for Henry.” The timer on the oven buzzes and she uncovers the bread and sticks it in the oven.

 

Regina shrugs. She hasn’t allowed herself to think of anything beyond Henry, has pushed Emma Swan to the furthest recesses of her mind because, the truth is, it hurt. It still hurts. When she thinks that Emma thought she was a part of this, that she would ever put her son in harm’s way like that…

 

“Henry,” she calls out, in lieu of a response. “Table please.”

 

There’s a groan from the living room but soon Henry and Mulan appear and start setting the table and if anyone can make table setting a competitive sport it’s Mulan and Regina starts to fear for her glassware.

 

But Henry is laughing and she would let him shatter the entire set of crystal glasses Daddy gave her and Daniel as a wedding gift if she thought it’d help.

 

When she leaves, Marian envelops her in a firm hug and whispers, “you’ll be okay, _linda_ , promise,” and rubs circles on her back as Regina allows herself thirty seconds to sob into her shoulder.  

 

She returns to work on Tuesday for the elimination ceremony, dressed in black, heels, full make up. She feels like a superhero, or perhaps supervillain would be closer to the truth, putting on her costume so no one can touch her. Kathryn squeezes her arm and, of course, everyone knows what happened in Maine. “Just let me know if you need me to cover for you,” she says, eyes shining with concern that Regina thinks might actually be sincere.

 

“You’ll never get anywhere in this business being nice,” Regina says, brushing her away. “Christ, why is no one ready?”

 

All too soon, the ceremony begins, the cameras roll, and August begins. “Tonight, our suitor must choose which three girls make the final three and get to go on an overnight date in the Fantasy suite.”

 

He introduces the girls in turn. “Sassy Tamara, from New York City, who won the Suitor’s heart with her quick wit and exotic beauty,” and Regina cringes. This is what taking time off does: you don’t get to check the scripts. When Tamara enters, she’s smiling but her eyes are knives.

 

“And America’s sweetheart, Emma Swan, who’s finally letting down her walls for her knight in shining armor,” August announces.

 

And Emma enters. It’s the first she’s seen of her since Maine and Regina is struck with an inexpressible wave of longing, her heart pounding wildly and a knot in her throat that constricts her breath. She closes her eyes, breathing in, before gesturing at Leroy to shift a few inches for a better shot.

 

Emma looks beautiful. She also looks exhausted, dark circles even the heaviest concealer cannot hide, and she wonders how much of a toll this has taken on her.

 

The Suitor appears next, standing before the contestants, and he makes his final choices. Ashley is called first, which doesn’t surprise Regina in the least. She’s the blandly safe choice, the one no one will remember but who won’t cause any waves.

 

“Emma,” the Suitor says, and Emma lets a broad smile spread across her face. Regina knows it’s not real, knows it because she’s seen Emma’s real smile, has _seen_ Emma.

 

She wonders for a moment if Emma will leave the show, like they’d planned before Cora. It’s a futile hope, however, because all Emma does is accept the charm on her bracelet and lean forward, allowing the Suitor to kiss her cheek.

 

Regina feels sick.

 

“And finally…” The Suitor pauses, face contorted with conflict. “Tamara.”

 

Tamara grins and Regina watches as Rory bursts into tears. “Zoom in,” she whispers to Leroy, who just rolls his eyes at her.

 

The Suitor speaks to Rory privately, placing a placatory hand on her arm, which she shakes off, cheeks spotted red, before storming away. “You cover the winners,” she says to Kathryn, and takes off after Rory, a camera operator following close behind her.

 

“Rory,” she says, finding her in her room, stuffing her clothes into a large suitcase. “We need to record your final thoughts.”

 

Rory sneers at her, eyes narrowed and lip curling. “My final thoughts?” she says, incredulous. “Fuck you, Regina Mills.”

 

The camera operator gasps but Regina just schools her face into a neutral expression. “Do you feel hard done by, Rory?”

 

“You blackmailed me,” Rory says. “You dig up dirt, our deepest, darkest secrets, and you create monsters from the mud and–” She stops. “You’re a hypocrite.”

 

“This isn’t about me,” Regina says. She’s aware that she’s using the same tone she used to use with Henry when he threw tantrums. It’s automatic, and she feels the chill ice through her. “Have you made friends on the show?”

 

“You have, haven’t you?” Rory says, and she’s practically spitting, venom in her voice. “I see the way you look at precious Emma Swan. We all do.”

 

At this, Regina stiffens. She draws herself up, pulling back her shoulders and affecting her mother’s executive producer mask. “Well, I see you weren’t miscast at all,” she says. “However, you still have contractual obligations, _dear_.”

 

“This bitch blackmailed me,” Rory says, gesturing at Regina and she feels guilt and anger course through her veins, intertwined, her whole body poisoned with it. “Y’all know that, right?”

 

“Answer the damn question, Rory,” she says through gritted teeth.

 

“Have I made friends on the show?” Rory asks, and she smiles. “What’s the line? I wasn’t here to make friends.”  

 

*

 

_Rory appears angry, cheeks flushed an unbecoming red. The camera is in tight close-up. “Am I disappointed? Obviously,” she says._

 

_We see a montage of shots, Rory’s most memorable moments in the competition._

 

_“I wasn’t here to make friends,” Rory says. We cut to a mid-shot of Rory, the thin strap of her dress falling from her shoulder. “I was here to find love.”_

 

_*_

 

From her perch in the editing booth, she watches Emma the next day. Kathryn is producing the first of the three overnight dates, Ashley’s. She watches her lie listless on a lounge chair, sunglasses on. She watches the muscles of her arm flex as she shifts, remembers the strength in those arms that night. She watches the downturn of Emma’s lips, the tension in her jaw.

 

It’s tonight. The Fantasy Suite. The overnight date. Regina’s not an idiot; typically at this stage in the show everyone left–suitors and girls alike–are bursting with pent-up sexual tension. Sex happens. And Regina knows Emma. She needs to prove a point.

 

She makes a decision, standing and striding from the booth. “Don’t do this, Emma,” she says, sitting down on the lounger beside her. Emma doesn’t look up.

 

“Do you need something?” She asks, voice flat.

 

“Whatever you think of me,” Regina says, and she can hear the tension in her own voice because she’s still angry, because how dare Emma think she would use her son like that? Anger doesn’t mean she doesn’t care though and, God, she cares so much. “This isn’t going to make you happy.”

 

“If I’m not needed,” Emma says, “I’d really like some peace and quiet before my big night.”

 

Regina sighs and stands. As she walks away, she pulls out her phone and calls Kathryn. “Remember how you offered me support? I’m going to need you to take over producing Emma Swan,” she says, and to her credit, Kathryn agrees immediately and doesn’t ask any further questions.

 

**xii. in which all hell breaks loose**

 

**_Guinevere Rodrigues Spotted With New Beau_ **

 

_Plagued by scandal, former ‘True Love’s Kiss’ contestant Guinevere Rodrigues looked anything but unhappy arm-in-arm with heart surgeon, Lance Knightley, strolling along Laguna Beach._

_Rodrigues has kept to herself since shocking breakup with Arthur Leroy and her story has been plagued with rumours of shacking up with his best friend. It seems this rumour, at least, is true._

_While the real estate magnate nurses his wounds, it seems Lance Knightley is more than ready to mend Rodrigues’ broken heart._

_*_

Regina pours all her energy into Tamara over the coming days. “I’m not going to win, am I?” Tamara asks. She’s seated in the dressing room prior to her overnight date, doing her own hair and makeup because the three makeup artists for the show are all white.

 

Regina sighs. “Do you really want that bland white boy?” she asks and Tamara laughs.

 

“He’d do,” she says and Regina wants to ask ‘for what’ but she’s not sure she wants to know. If she knows she’ll feel obligated to use it and she’s so tired.

 

She’s called in to see her mother before being able to go home. It’s late; most of the dates on ‘True Love’s Kiss’ are daytime events, but tonight’s date with Tamara was a dinner and they lingered over drinks before the filming of the door to the hotel room closing on the camera. “Sit, dear,” Cora says, not even looking up. She sits, stares at her nails, waits. Eventually, Cora turns to her. “We need to talk about Emma Swan.”

 

“What about her?” Regina says.

 

“I specifically requested that you produce her,” Cora says. “Why was Kathryn in charge of her overnight date?”

 

“You know why,” Regina says.

 

Cora rolls her eyes but, blessedly, doesn’t press further. “And Rory? I hear there was a fracas when she left.”

 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

 

Cora hums. It’s a low sound, quiet, but it resonates. “I am disappointed in you, Regina.”

 

The words have her cringing, desperate to curl up in the chair and make herself small. They remind her of childhood, of Mother catching her with a girl in her bed at seventeen, of the long and chilly car ride home when she was sent home from high school for calling her Government teacher a racist asshole, of a thousand minor errors and failures on her part, moments where she never measured up. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Mother,” she says.

 

“Well.” Cora pauses, and she stands, turns to leave. She’s at the door when Cora says, “I’m curious to know Aurora Rose’s secret.”

 

She stiffens, but doesn’t turn. Instead, she returns to the editing suite. It’s empty, shrouded in shadow and the blue lights of the screens. She sits, slumping into a chair, and skipping absently through footage.

 

It’s the footage from Emma’s date. She watches Emma taking delicate bites of chicken, laughing at all of the Suitor’s cheesy jokes. She says very little because, while Kathryn’s great with managing the crew, Regina’s got her beat in drawing the more introverted contestants out of their shells kicking and screaming.

 

She fast-forwards through, watching Emma’s face all the while. She’s not happy, smiling too much to make up for the fact that her eyes are dead.

 

“So,” the Suitor says. “We have the Fantasy Suite for tonight. I’m not expecting anything, but you’re special, Emma.”

 

And Emma licks her lips, smiles, and says, “I’m all in.”

 

She watches the Suitor hold out his hand to her, watches Emma take it and stand, watches her follow him to the door of the Fantasy Suite, kiss him against the door.

 

She looks back before she enters and Regina knows it’s ridiculous, but she feels like Emma’s staring directly at her.

 

Her heart aches. She cares. God, she cares so much.

 

When she returns home, after farewelling the nanny, she looks in on Henry. He’s fighting sleep and doesn’t protest her sitting down on his bed. “How was your day, sweetheart?” she asks, running her fingers through his hair.

 

“Good,” he mumbles. “Me an’ Nick played soccer after school.”

 

She smiles. “And Meg made you dinner?”

 

“Moussaka,” he says. “Not as good as your Pastelón. She said there’s some in the fridge.” He’s so tired he’s slurring his words.

 

“I’ll look forward to that then,” she says lightly. She’s not hungry at all, her stomach churning after speaking to Cora, but it’s not Henry’s job to allay her fears.

 

“Mom,” he says. “Have you seen her?”

 

There’s no question who he’s talking about and she stiffens, hand pausing in his hair. “We haven’t spoken,” she says.

 

“Maybe,” he says and he’s so hesitant that it kills her, “Maybe I would want to talk to her one day?”

 

She forces a smile. “Perhaps.” She doesn’t like his chances, doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but she would destroy worlds to make him happy and if Emma is what does that, she’ll do her best.

 

In asking this, it is as though a weight has been lifted from Henry. “Good night,” he says, sinking back down into his pillows.

 

“Goodnight, my dear boy,” she replies, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

 

It’s as she leaves the room she hears him say, “I miss you,” and that’s it really.

 

She has Sunday free from work, and Henry has a playdate with Nick Tillman. She needs to talk to someone, someone who understands Cora. She contemplates Marian; they’re going around there for dinner, after all. It would be easy to talk to her. But Marian grew up in a supportive, loving family, with a mother who still sends her sends her care packages of cookies and wine, with parents who were equals. Marian has never quite understood Cora’s pull over her.

 

There’s really only one option, she realises. Grimacing, she picks up the phone.

 

“So,” Zelena says, sitting across from her in a nearby Starbucks. She crosses her legs and flicks red hair across one shoulder. “This is quite a shocking turn of events. You, calling _me_.”

 

“Oh shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

“It’s fine,” Zelena says. “I’m just here for the free coffee.”

 

“I hardly think you can call that _monstrosity_ coffee,” Regina says. “How are Darcy and Manson?”

 

“Peachy,” Zelena says. She drums her fingers against the table. “And Henry?”

 

“He’s doing well,” she says. “Are you working right now?”

 

“Why would I need to?” Zelena asks. “My _husband_ makes enough for both of us. Apparently.” Her lip curls. “And your little job?” The condescending jab does little to hide Zelena’s envy.

 

Regina shrugs. “It pays the bills. Not everyone can live off being a reality television contestant.” Zelena stiffens and Regina feels the tight, unwelcome knot of guilt in her stomach. “Sorry. This isn’t about our… thing.”

 

“Not that I care especially,” Zelena says, running a finger through the condensation on the side of her cup. “But what _is_ it about?”  

 

Regina wraps her hands around her latte; it’s too hot for the balmy weather, but she hasn’t slept properly since Maine and she needs all the energy on offer to deal with her sister. “What do you do when the choices you are having to make are increasingly untenable?”

 

Zelena leans back in her chair. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to move beyond vague rhetorical questions, sis.”

 

“I blackmailed one of the contestants,” Regina says. “I used her sexuality against her.”

 

Zelena whistles. “Cold. I’m almost impressed.”

 

She frowns. “I’m tired of this,” she says. She takes a sip of her coffee, still too hot, liquid scalding her tongue. “I’m tired of feeling like I have to choose between different parts of who I am.”

 

Zelena swirls the straw in her drink. “Why should you have to?” she asks.

 

She laughs at this. Of course Zelena doesn’t get it. But she just says, “You’re one to talk, sis.”

 

“I have no idea what you mean.” Zelena sips her frothy, cream-laden drink.

 

“Please,” Regina scoffs. “Gal pals? I know you, Zelena.” She pauses, takes a sip of coffee and adds, “I might have only been a kid, but I remember Glinda.”

 

Zelena’s head darts around wildly, as if in search of rogue paparazzi. “Keep your voice down,” she hisses, rattled for the first time.

 

“Does your husband know?”

 

She shrugs. “He’s away so often.” She frowns into her coffee, her expression petulant, lips twisted and creases in her forehead intensifying. “I honestly don’t think he’d care.”

 

“Oh sweetheart,” Regina sighs. She stretches out her hand to Zelena, but her sister jerks her arm away.

 

“Don’t patronise me. Just because you have the loving husband, the amazing job, Mother’s respect…”

 

It’s strange but out of all the fantasies Zelena is weaving–because the love of her life died and her job is killing her–it’s her final point that sticks. And she’s exhausted by it, exhausted by her big sister, the girl she admired the most growing up, feeling like she has to compete with her for the affection of a woman who doesn’t care about them beyond what they can do for her. “Mother doesn’t respect me,” she says. “Mother doesn’t respect anyone. If you’re closeting yourself in that marriage for her _respect_ …”

 

“It has other benefits,” Zelena admits. “I do like the publicity. So do some of the ladies.” She wiggles her tongue and Regina wrinkles her nose in disgust.

 

“Of course your taste in women is abhorrent,” she says.

 

“Don’t hate the playa,” Zelena says, sitting back and smirking.

 

Regina just looks at her, deeply unimpressed. “I remember when I thought you were cool,” she says.

 

“Me too, baby sis,” Zelena says, and her smile is more natural now. “Me too.” There’s a brief moment of companionable silence, Zelena using her straw to stir her drink.

 

Regina lets out a deep breath. “This job is destroying me,” she says.

 

“So quit,” Zelena replies.

 

“You know it’s not that simple,” Regina says. “Mother–”

 

“Mother has another daughter,” Zelena says and her grin is wicked with glee, and Regina cannot help but let her lips curve into an evil smile.

 

She’s strangely calm at work the next day, armoured by Zelena’s plan and Henry’s love and Marian’s sense of right and wrong. They’re filming the elimination, Kathryn taking the lead, and Regina watches as the girls enter. “Tonight, three will become two,” August booms into the microphone. Every day, he becomes more and more ridiculous, she thinks.

 

Emma stands in the centre of the three women. She’s worrying at her lip with her teeth, and Regina just barely resists the urge to tell her to cut it out. But Emma’s not her responsibility anymore, and Kathryn doesn’t seem bothered by the destruction of Emma’s makeup. “America’s Sweetheart,” Cora murmurs, standing behind her. “Ratings gold.”

 

Regina fights the shudder that threatens to run through her when her mother places a restrictive hand on her shoulder.

 

The Suitor enters. He stands before them, impeccably dressed in a tuxedo, and feigning an expression which is the perfect combination of nerves and modest anticipation. “This has been an incredibly difficult decision,” he says, voice echoing through the hall. “You are all remarkable women and it has been an honour to get to know each of you over the past weeks.” He pauses. “But I’ve made my decision.” Another lengthy pause. They’ll edit in dramatic music and cuts to the girls’ faces later, stretch the silence. “Emma… will you continue on our journey to true love in the final two?”

 

At the sound of her name, Emma freezes, jaw clenching.

 

“What is the idiot girl doing?” Cora hisses, but Regina doesn’t respond, can’t respond. Her heart pounds, hope fluttering in her chest.

 

“Emma?” The Suitor asks. He’s smiling, moving towards her.

 

Emma’s eyes dart around. For the first time in days, her gaze meets Regina’s, searching for assurance, an answer, anything. Regina nods, dampening the smile that is twitching on her lips. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I can’t do this.”

  
She removes the charm bracelet, placing it on a rose-laden table, and leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long. I can't promise anything about when the final chapter will arrive; it's been a ... hectic and overwhelming few months and writing has been a struggle. I really appreciate the support and the comments.


	7. CHAPTER SEVEN

**xiii. in which Zelena plays the (incredibly self-serving) hero**

 

**_True Love’s Kiss: Shock Twist!_ **

_One of the final three ‘True Love’s Kiss’ ladies is set to turn down a certain hunky heartthrob suitor._

_On set rumours suggest that the penultimate episode of the wildly popular reality TV dating series is one not to be missed. “He was shocked,” a crew member told us. “We all were. It was ugly on set. Tears, tantrums.”_

_Uglier than the rumours that Aurora Rose’s departure was punctuated with some most un-ladylike swearing? This we’ll have to see._

_*_

For one brief, stark moment the set is silent and all Regina can hear is her heartbeat pounding and echoing in her ears, the sound reminding her of shells roaring out the sea. “Well, fuck,” Tamara says.

 

And chaos erupts. Leroy chases after Emma with a camera. Ashley bursts into deep, choking sobs. “Regina,” Kathryn hisses. “Regina, what do we do?” She's shifting from foot to foot, anxious, desperate for direction. The Suitor’s face is stuck in a stupid expression halfway between a smirk and constipation, and she fights back this insane urge to laugh at the whole ridiculous situation.

 

This wasn’t supposed to be how it went. In her imaginings, when they had discussed it, Regina had been at Emma’s side, had supported her through her choice and, when Cora had raged and howled and threatened lawsuits (though there is nothing in Emma’s contract to stop her from leaving), she had been there, bravely defending Emma, saving her.

 

Emma has become her own damn saviour and Regina isn’t sure whether she is proud or infuriated.

 

As though on autopilot, she directs camera operators, sends Kathryn to follow after Emma to get her final thoughts on film, calms Ashley, and nobly doesn’t laugh when the Suitor utters, in a tone of abject disbelief, “I’ve never been rejected before.”

 

It’s going to make spectacular television, the voice in the back of her mind whispers, and she hates it.

 

Finally, filming is completed--though it’s later than usual, almost gone two, and she is bone tired--and she has almost forgotten Cora’s presence when she feels the ice crawl spider-like up her spine.

 

“Eight o’clock, my office,” Cora says and iron laces the silk facade of her voice.

 

She calls Zelena from the car as she drives home. “We’re on,” she says, speaking before Zelena can complain about the lateness of the hour. “Eight o’clock.”

 

Her sister sighs. “This couldn’t have been a text? Anyway, I have the school run, sis.”

 

She bites back a comment about the likelihood of Zelena ever doing a school run in her life. “Don’t whine,” she says instead. “You’re not the one Mother is going to murder tomorrow.”

 

Zelena laughs out a, “touché,” and hangs up.

 

Henry’s asleep when she finally gets home, though he has kicked his blankets into a knot at the bottom of his bed and his stuffed toy puppy, the one he got as a baby, is clutched in one hand. She wonders, as she pulls the blankets back over him, whether she should be concerned by this reversion back to childhood. He hasn’t slept clutching Copper since he was seven.

 

“Sweet dreams,” she whispers, smoothing the blankets. He stirs, twisting, but does not wake.

 

She doesn’t sleep, lying awake, and running through everything she needs to say, rehearsing her arguments, exploring every conceivable angle and refuting it. Her heart is in her mother’s vice-like grip and it feels as though it’s being crushed, her whole body tensed, her breathing sharp.

 

It takes several coffees and far too much concealer to at least put up an appearance that doesn’t resemble a corpse and she keeps pinching herself to stop nodding off as she waits outside Cora’s office alone. Zelena still hasn’t arrived when she is summoned with a curt, “enter.” She can feel the strength drain from her with each step. She hates to admit to it but she needs Zelena--even though her sister is even more desperate for their mother’s approval than she is.

 

“Sit,” Cora says, not looking up from the file in front of her. She watches her mother, her face stern and fixed, with a slash of red lipstick, the high spots of red on her cheeks the only indicator of anger.

 

Cora isn’t going to break the silence, continuing to flick through papers and sign with sharp, jagged movements and ignoring Regina’s presence. “It will make excellent television,” Regina says eventually, and at this Cora’s head jerks up and her glare is fixed on Regina instead of the paperwork.

 

“This is your bad influence,” she says.

 

“I think Emma Swan is capable of--” Regina starts but is interrupted.

 

“That girl was so desperate for approval she would have done anything for me when we started filming,” she says. Her eyes glitter blackly. “And now she’s capable of making her own choices?”  She laughs, the sound hollow and echoing grimly through the office. “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing,” Regina says but it’s too quick and too loud, and Cora’s lips twist into a crude facsimile of a smile, somehow even more unnerving than her anger.

 

“We have a winner completely devoid of personality,” she says. “What are you going to do to fix this?”

 

“You also have Tamara,” Regina says, and she wishes she could be surprised at Cora’s sneer and dismissive head shake.

 

“It’s going to be Ashley,” she says. “I’m not risking another season like the last. Aurora would have been a stronger back up but, well…” She smiles again; it’s ‘I’m disappointed, Regina’ and ‘try harder, Regina’ and ‘there will be consequences for this insolence, Regina’ wrapped in one horrifying bundle. She feels her will deflate further at this trigger to her adolescence. “So what are you going to do to fix this?” Cora repeats.

 

“Nothing.” It’s whispered at first but then she repeats it louder, her voice cracking. “Nothing. I quit, Mother.”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“I quit.” She looks up, meeting her mother’s eyes and, for a second, something akin to pride flashes across them. It is gone the next instant, however, and Cora stands, striding to the filing cabinet and pulling out a contract. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s Regina’s contract.

 

“Seven seasons,” Cora says, flicking through the contract and placing it in front of Regina. The relevant clause is flagged with a post-it note and she gulps, choking back bile. Her mother is _prepared_ ; she has predicted this whole meeting. “That’s what you signed up for. You’re mine, dear. Until I say otherwise.”

 

“Then say otherwise,” Regina says. She’s trying to be firm but her voice has taken on this querulous, pleading quality and she loathes herself. Where the hell is Zelena? “You could--”

 

“And why would I do that?”

 

And then the door bursts open with a clatter. “Why indeed?” It’s Zelena and Regina has never been more grateful to hear her sister’s affected, faux-British accent in her life.

 

(“One semester of college in London does not make you British,” she had told her during her senior year of high school. Zelena had thrown her Marketing textbook at her, slicing her lip open.)

 

“This is a business meeting, dear,” Cora says. “Would you mind waiting to chat until I’m done with Regina?”

 

“Oh, I’m here to talk business though,” Zelena says. She settles into the chair next to Regina, crossing stockings-clad legs and smoothing the lines of the dress that makes her look like a cross between the Wicked Witch of the West and the not-so grieving widow of a wealthy corpse. “Regina wants out of her contract. Let her.”

 

“Regina is the best producer I have,” Cora says. “I refuse to let her throw her career away over some _infatuation_. She has them every season and I’m very tolerant but there are limits.” Regina’s skin itches and tightens with humiliation.

 

“She hates it,” Zelena says. “Let her be happy.”

 

“This sisterly togetherness is very touching,” Cora replies, examining her nails. “But Regina will see that I’m right in time.”

 

Zelena sighs. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” she says, though this is belied by the absolute glee in her voice. “I know about Emily Gale.”

 

“Daddy’s accountant?” Regina asks. “ _Please_ tell me this isn’t your big plan, Zelena.”

 

But then she looks across at Cora, who has suddenly gone very pale and very quiet.

 

“I don’t know what you think you know, dear...” she starts.

 

“I was a good friend of her little niece, Dorothy,” Zelena says. “A very good friend, if you know what I mean.”

 

Cora adopts a look of mild disgust. “Spare us.”

 

“Sweet girl,” Zelena continues. “Excellent taste in shoes. Not as discreet as one might like, however. Now, I’m just a silly LA housewife, but I wonder how the network bosses would feel about exactly how you financed the beach house in Hawaii.”

 

“I think you’ve made your point,” Cora snaps. “You wouldn’t turn on family.”

 

“It has been weighing so heavily on my conscience,” Zelena says and, God, she actually clutches her chest. Again, Regina thinks she might see that flash of pride in her mother’s eyes.

 

Silence stretches out before them. And then… “Fine,” Cora snaps. “Just. Fine. If you want out, Regina, it’s done. Though God knows how I’ll replace you at such short notice…”

 

“I was so hoping you would say that,” Zelena says, and her grin broadens, Cheshire-like. “Regina, sweetie, you can leave. Mother and I need to talk business.”

 

“Gladly,” Regina says, feeling so light she could float.

 

She bumps into Tamara on her way to her car. “When is filming starting?” she asks. “Only, I was hoping to call my sister...”

 

“I have no idea,” Regina replies, and she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face. “I quit.”

 

Tamara’s eyes widen before her own grin appears, sharp and gone almost before it appears. “Who’ll have my back now?” she asks.

 

Regina frowns. “Honestly, you can do better,” she says. “You should have men swarming around you, not be desperately clamouring for tepid attention from some subpar idiot.” She’s pleased to see Tamara looking thoughtful before she strides away.

 

Getting into her car (she’ll pack up her stuff later, she has time), she heads directly to Henry’s school, where she claims there has been a family emergency and pulls him out of class. “Nothing bad,” she says, when they are out of earshot of the school office. “At least I don’t think so.” Though he presses her, she resists the urge to say anything until they are settled into a booth at his favourite diner, two orders of pancakes placed. She can’t stop smiling, and her mouth is starting to hurt. The ache is good though. “Mom, you’re kind of freaking me out,” Henry says, fiddling with the paper tubing from his straw.

 

“I quit my job.” It comes out in a rush, tripping over words, and she sees his eyebrows knit together and rushes to reassure him, anxiety already knotting in her stomach. “I’ll find something else but I won’t be looking for something with these hours. I want to be home a lot more.”

 

When she imagined this, she expected him to be quietly pleased, to smile and say all the right things and then look about for his pancakes. She expected him to privately wonder why she pulled him out of school to tell him this. She doesn’t, however, expect him to leap out of his seat and envelop her in a hug. “I love you,” he mumbles into her hair.

 

“Oh, my darling, precious boy,” she says, and then they’re both crying, salty tears intermingled with almost hysterical laughter. “I love you so much.”

 

**xiv. in which the Mills family have a fresh start.**

 

**_How Ursula Sees It_ **

_It’s not where I expected to see Ursula Morgan’s career go, and if you’d asked the singer ten years ago where she would have expected her career to have taken her she would agree with me. “I was angry,” she says, and laughs, the husky sound almost hypnotising. “I channelled all my rage into music and got pissed off when it didn’t make a difference.”_

_Now, her singing days long behind her, the songstress is in Boston, where she’s setting up her own radio show: Voices of Boston. The show aims to inform, to entertain and, most importantly for Ursula, to feature voices who aren’t heard enough in media._

_“I hope the show can be a voice, a real voice, for the voiceless; people of colour, the disabled, the LGBTQ community…” She laughs again. “Sounds like a pipe dream, huh?”_

_*_

“Hey, Mom,” Henry says. They are making empanadillas, Henry standing on a stool to reach the high bench. He stops after that, the silence heavy around him, and continues to cut pastry into circles. Regina continues to mix the minced chicken with spices, not looking across at him but feeling his presence.

 

“Do you want to talk?”

 

“It’s just…” He sighs. “Have you heard anything about Emma?”

 

She stiffens and Henry must notice. “You don’t have to have,” he reassures her. “Just, it would be nice maybe to see her, chat to her.”

 

She frowns. She hasn’t heard anything; the show doesn’t exactly keep track of contestants after they leave, especially not if they’re the rare contestant who leaves by choice, and it’s not like she has access to any information anymore. Zelena would probably find it for her but she’s too proud to ask. They had written to her together, Henry expressing his desire to meet her, but it has thus far gone unanswered and she’s not sure if she’s upset about that. She imagines she has gone back to Maine, back to her parents and her much younger siblings, back to working as her father’s deputy sheriff.

 

“I haven’t,” she says. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.” Weeks have passed since that night--the sex, the triumph, the inevitable fall--but she still feels as raw and fragile as if it happened yesterday, still feels angry occasionally at Emma’s accusations even though she can recognise them as panicked lashing out.

 

Henry sighs again. “But you could make up with her, right?” He balls up a round of dough, letting it ooze out between his fingers.

 

“It doesn’t always work like that,” she says.

 

“You were friends,” he says and that obstinate jut to his chin--that mannerism she’s associated so long with herself and now associates just as strongly with Emma Swan--puts in an appearance. “Just because Grandma screwed everything up…”

 

“That’s enough, Henry,” she says, firm. “I sent an email. You’ll just have to wait until Emma wants to talk. And you’ll speak about your grandmother politely.”

 

“ _You_ don’t,” Henry mutters. “And why can’t--”

 

“You’ve had time to get used to the idea of being adopted. Remember how you were at the beginning?” She puts down the empanadilla she has been folding together, and looks across at him, really looks, and she sees a twitch of guilt in the knotting of his lips. Because of that, she is gentle with him when she continues. “Give Emma that same courtesy, sweetheart.”

 

He scowls but subsides. This isn’t the end of it, she knows, but she is grateful for the reprieve, however brief.

 

Later, when their guests have arrived, Henry is distracted by being a good host to the few kids present, just as she is distracted by her friends. “So,” Kathryn says, glass of red wine in her hand. “Tell us about the new job.”

 

She hadn’t even been looking, not really, when a publicist from her early days with the network put her in contact with Ursula Morgan. “It must be fate,” Alice Tinker had burbled happily when she’d called her just three days after Regina had quit ‘True Love’s Kiss’. “One day I hear about the opening at Voices of Boston, and then next I find out Regina Mills has up and quit! Destiny!”

 

“Coincidence,” Regina had said, trying not to sound too scathing given she was sitting in her dressing gown at ten in the morning. Tinker had always been one to believe in one’s glorious destiny as set out by the universe, something she’d unsuccessfully tried to instil in Regina during the brief time they’d worked together. “Thank you though.”

 

It had taken more convincing with Ursula Morgan. “Reality television,” she’d said, laughing. “Tinker’s mad.”

 

“I mean, I won’t dispute that,” Regina had said. “But I’m good.”

 

“Not just reality television,” Ursula had continued, “but one of the most vilely misogynistic, racist, heteronormative shows on television. And now you want to, what? Produce social justice radio for stuff all money?”

 

“Yes please,” Regina had said.

 

“I must be mad too,” Ursula had said when she’d called her back days later. “Content producer’s yours if you want it.”

 

“Ursula Morgan’s a legend,” Kathryn says, finger gliding along the rim of the champagne flute in her hand. “When I was a kid and lived out east, my daddy used to take me to hear her sing sometimes. She was, just, wow.”

 

“So I’ve been told,” Regina says. She’d looked Ursula up when she’d gone for the job and been blown away by that voice.

 

“I’m happy for you,” Kathryn says.

 

“And how’s ‘True Love’s Kiss’?” Regina asks, shifting from foot to foot.

 

Kathryn brightens. “Good, actually,” she says. “Zelena’s no you, but she’s something.”

 

Regina looks across at Zelena, resplendent in green and gold and talking with Mulan. Zelena laughs, touches Mulan’s forearm, and throws her mane of hair back over her shoulders. Regina’s reminded of a lioness, playing with her food. “She’s something alright,” Regina mutters. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” And she moves swiftly in their direction.

 

“Regina! Hey! Need me to do anything?” Mulan asks. Her smile is a little too wide, eyes pleading.

 

For a moment she contemplates torturing Mulan but it’s her last night in LA and she relents. “Henry could use some help setting up a board game for the kids maybe?” she suggests, and the only word Regina can use to describe Mulan’s movements is ‘bolting’.

 

“You know, I’d prefer if you didn’t flirt with my best friend’s fiancée,” Regina says, moving into the vacated space.

 

“Oh please,” Zelena scoffs. “If you call that flirting, no wonder you haven’t got any for years.”

 

“Just because my love life isn’t splattered across the pages of women’s magazines…” she starts. “No. Rising above.” She scrambles for a bottle of wine, topping up her glass and offering it to Zelena. “How’s work?”

 

“Fantastic,” Zelena says. “A lot of potential there.” She glances across at Kathryn, lips quirking into a smirk.

 

“Straight,” Regina reminds her.

 

“So am I,” says Zelena, and then barks a laugh. “Work is wonderful though. I can’t understand how you wanted to give this up.”

 

She remembers feeling that way, like she was the luckiest person in the world to do what she did. It didn’t last long. But Zelena’s different; she might actually succeed, be the daughter Mother wanted. “Talk to me again in ten years,” is all she says and heads towards the kitchen.

 

She takes a moment to hide in the cool dim of the pantry; there are so many people, all there to see her, and there is so much noise, everything suddenly overwhelming. She’s starting to regret having this party the night before they go. There’s a knock at the pantry door. “Should I be worried that your sister was full-on flirting with Mulan?” Marian asks, and Regina opens the door. Marian has pulled oil-drizzled French loaf from the oven and warming a tomato mixture Regina had prepared earlier.

 

“Judging by Mulan’s desperation to leave by any means necessary, I think you’re safe,” Regina says.

 

Marian laughs. “She’s so scared of pretty girls,” she says. “She’s lucky I’ve got game coming out my eyeballs and no shame.”

 

She’s hit, suddenly, by this wave of nauseous longing. Out of everything she’s leaving behind in LA, it’s hardest to say goodbye to Marian, which is why she’s been putting it off and putting it off, but they fly tomorrow and she’s running out of quiet moments. “Marian,” she says, but Marian glares.

 

“No goodbyes,” she says, glowering.

 

“But--”

 

“I don’t want to hear it, Mills,” Marian says. And then she flashes her a quick grin. “I’m on the home stretch of my doctorate and, well, Mulan can get nursing jobs pretty much anywhere…”

 

“Don’t tease me like that,” Regina says.

 

“We’ve never liked LA,” Marian says and then Regina’s wrapping her arms around her, clutching her tight to her and breathing her in, feeling her curls tickle the bare skin of her arms. “I love you,” Marian murmurs into Regina’s hair. “Like, I’m going to marry Mulan and love her forever until we’re ancient and having lots of creaky, old lady sex, but I can’t not have you in my life.”

 

“Shut up,” Regina says, feeling her eyes well with tears and when the party’s over, Mulan heads home because she has an early morning shift and Regina finds Henry curled up in her bed, fast asleep. Rather than move him, she curls up beside him, letting herself be sandwiched between him and Marian.

 

“It’s okay to miss her, you know,” Marian murmurs, and somehow because it’s pitch-black, Regina can stop pretending to be fine.

 

“It’s stupid,” she says. “She’s Henry’s birth mother. My mother--I--ruined her life. She didn’t trust me when it mattered.”

 

“But you care about her,” Marian whispers, and Regina has no choice but to nod, letting her head knock against Marian’s shoulder.

 

“I wish I didn’t,” she says. Marian heaves a sigh, turning onto her front, and then before Regina knows it she’s asleep.

 

She dreams of Emma. It’s not her Emma, not the lost girl, desperate to please at any cost, but an Emma who found them years ago, searching for the son she’d given up. It’s a vivid image, sunlight painting a worn kitchen table, a mug of coffee in Regina’s hands, Henry scowling at a notebook, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he writes.

 

“Kid’s going to be the next J.K. Rowling,” Emma says, wrapping her arms around Regina’s shoulders. She can feel the sheen of her cotton shirt against her skin, feel the taut muscles it hides.

 

Regina takes Emma’s hand in hers, steepling their fingers together, absently noting the gold wedding band, and pulls her hand to her lips. “I love you,” she says, and she twists around to look at Emma and she’s sunshine, smiling so bright.

 

Emma’s lips move to speak and then Marian lets out a loud snort, throwing an arm across Regina’s torso, and she jolts awake. It’s not until she tastes salt on her lips that she realises she’s been crying.

 

And then she’s up and the keys are handed over to her estate agent (they’re renting semi-furnished because some rodent part of Regina’s brain can’t help but wonder if this will all come crashing down in six months) and she and Henry are on a plane and then in Boston and staring at the suitcases in the apartment she rented online.

 

“Takeaways?” Regina asks, looking around at the space, currently furnished with beds and not much else, and Henry nods and grabs her phone, searching for a nearby pizza place.

 

They’re sitting on Henry’s duvet with their backs against the living room wall, eating pepperoni pizza when Henry asks her. “Mom, are you in love with Emma?”

 

She fumbles with the slice. “Pardon?” He just looks at her, eyebrows raised. “Were you awake?”

 

“Yeah,” he says. “You and Marian were really noisy. Mom, you have to--”

 

But she interrupts him. “We emailed her,” she says. “Be patient.”

 

He scowls. “I want you to be happy,” he says.

 

“I’m perfectly content,” she says, and it’s not a lie.

 

“That’s not the same,” he says. “Mom, she’s in--”

 

“Enough, Henry!” she snaps at last. “What do you want me to say? I really cared about her, but _she_ left me. _She_ thought I would stoop to using my son for good ratings and she’s a coward. She’s made her feelings perfectly clear and I’m not going to chase after her.” Her voice cracks on ‘chase’ and Henry changes the subject to his new school.

 

And so life goes on. Henry starts at his new school and comes home burbling about new friends and a teacher he loves and she’s so relieved. Regina starts her job and loves it. And if she thinks about Emma whenever her brain isn’t occupied, well, she simply won’t let herself rest.

 

It seems to work. Henry’s given up asking, at least.

 

Perhaps this is why she gets complacent. “Can I go to Violet’s after school?” Henry asks that morning, turning to her in the car. They’ve been in Boston three weeks.

 

She’s met Violet’s father before; he had had given her his phone number in case of emergencies. “If you need someone to keep an eye on Henry,” he’d said. “We moved here last year from Connecticut. I know what it’s like.” She’s still not entirely sure whether he’d been trying to flirt with her, but it was a kind gesture.

 

“Be safe,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. He squirms away and leaps out of the car and she watches him run inside the school gate, towards a group of kids, including Violet.

 

A fresh start. It was the best thing for both of them.

 

It’s after six when she gets home. She’s new to the job, working too hard to impress Ursula and other bosses, to prove she’s better than her curriculum vitae suggests. Her hours are still better than LA though; she’s never home later than seven and weekend work is unheard of. She’s barely through the front door before she eases her feet out of her heels, wincing and massaging her stocking-clad feet.

 

Henry isn’t home at seven. She sighs, frustrated by the rapidly cooling soup on the stovetop, and slips her swollen feet back into her shoes, heading downstairs to the second floor. “Hi, Violet,” she says. “I’m here to collect Henry.”

 

Violet wrinkles her nose. “Henry isn’t here?” she says, pushing a long lock of hair back behind her ear. “He said he was going to your work after school.”

 

Four hours. He could be in New York by now. Her throat constricts, and her head feels as though it has been plunged headfirst into a bucket of ice. Violet frowns. “Are you okay, Ms Mills? Should I get Dad?”  

 

“No,” Regina says. “I’m not. I’m sorry, Violet. I need to--” And she leaves, at a stumbling run, cursing herself for not bringing her cell phone downstairs, cursing herself for high heeled shoes, for working late. In the elevator she presses her hands against the mirrored wall, breathing in sharp, ragged breaths.

 

She fumbles with the key in the lock, rummages through her purse for her phone, and dials emergency services. “Hello? My son is missing. He didn’t go where he was supposed to after school and--”

 

“Have you checked with his friends?”

 

“Of course,” she snaps. “What sort of idiot do you think I am?”

 

There’s a knock at the door. “One moment.” She runs to the door, tripping in her shoes and kicking one off, and opens it. Henry stands there, striped scarf around his neck and his best hangdog expression firmly in place. “Henry.” She lets out his name in a breathless sigh, moving forward and dragging him into a hug, pressing kisses to his hair. His arms wrap tight around her and for the moment he is the only thing in the world that matters. “You are in so much trouble,” she says, voice wet with tears, and he lets out a choked laugh.

 

“I’m sorry, Mama,” he says, “but I had to. She lives in Boston now.”

 

And it is then that she looks up and sees her. Emma. She’s in jeans and a red leather jacket and her hair curls over her shoulders. She is so vibrantly, perfectly Emma, more than she has seen before, and she forgets everything, forgets that she’s angry and that she’s was just so scared she couldn’t breathe. Emma grimaces, her smile rueful, honest, and open, in a way that makes Regina burn up. Regina stands up, lopsided in her single shoe, and weaves a hand through Henry’s hair, attempting to surreptitiously readjust her grey linen dress, which has ridden high on her thighs.

 

“Hi,” Emma says, and she shrugs, shifting from foot to foot. She looks as though she wishes to run, but she doesn’t.

 

“Hi,” Regina replies.

 

Henry stares between the two of them, and she can practically feel the force of his grin. “So,” Emma says. “Kid’s sneaky.”

 

“He gets that from me,” Regina says. “Henry, there is rapidly cooling zucchini soup on the stovetop. You may have some before you go to bed and think very seriously about what you have put me through tonight.” Henry sighs melodramatically before heading to the kitchen, but the grin doesn’t leave his face.

 

Emma’s still there. Her hand jerks forward automatically, as if to touch her, but she draws back just in time. Slowly, she reminds herself. She dabs at her eyes with a Kleenex, smiles. “Now, Ms Swan,” she says. “How would you like a glass of the best apple cider you’ve ever tasted?”

 

Emma grins. It’s tentative and small, but unmistakable, the force of it sheer light. “Got anything stronger?”

 

Regina holds out her hand and Emma takes it, and she leads her into the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Turtle for reading this and reassuring me, and to her and Mari for sitting with me while I wrote the first 2,000 words and being a sounding board for my bad ideas.
> 
> Again, I'm sorry about the massive delay. If it helps (it probably doesn't) there's now going to be a final chapter to tie up a few loose ends.


	8. CHAPTER EIGHT

**xv. in which there is a happily ever after**

 

**_Meet Zelena Greene, the new brains behind reality TV_ **

_You may know Zelena Greene from her triumphant win on the first season of ‘True Love’s Kiss’. However, Greene has moved from in front of the camera to become one of Hollywood’s rising stars in reality television production. “I liked the limelight,” the redhead says, smirking, “but one does grow tired of being tabloid fodder and want to use one’s not inconsiderable brains for something other than packing school lunches and avoiding paparazzi.”_

_Modesty, it seems, is not a virtue of Ms Greene’s. “I don’t see the point in false modesty,” she tells me. “I’m more than qualified and talented and I see no point in denying that to suit some man’s idea of the modest little woman.”_

_Certainly, it was Zelena Greene, not her executive producer mother, Cora Mills (whose own career has been dogged in recent years with accusations of racism), who spotted the potential of Tamara Drake, last season’s runner up on ‘True Love’s Kiss’, and created spin-off ‘Lady’s Choice’._

_“My sister [Regina Mills, former ‘True Love’s Kiss’ producer] was a huge advocate for women of colour on the show,” Zelena says, and her smile seems to soften at the mention of the erstwhile producer, who took a step back from Hollywood last year and now works for public radio in Boston. “And she was absolutely right about Tamara. The audience loved her. She deserves to be a star in her own right.”_

*

“Did you read it?” Zelena asks. She’s giddy, voice childish, high-pitched and excitable, and Regina smiles, looking down at the image of her sister staring up at her from the magazine. Her eyes are piercingly blue and she’s dressed in a pantsuit that their mother would be proud of. However, she scoffs down the phone line.

 

“I’ve read enough sordid gossip about you to last a lifetime,” she says. “And since when have you _ever_ avoided the paparazzi?”

 

“It’s not–” Zelena begins, outraged, before she realises and laughs. “Oh, shut up. Anyway, you’ll be watching tonight?”

 

“If we have time,” Regina says. “Marian and Mulan are only in Boston for a few days.”

 

There’s muffled silence, a cry of, “Darcy, hands out of Mummy’s handbag, precious,” and then Zelena lets out a triumphant shout. “Marian just posted a picture of cupcakes with #ladyschoice iced on them on Instagram.”

 

Regina shoots an outraged glare at Marian, who is busy mashing avocado and refusing to meet Regina’s eye. “I should never have let you befriend my best friend,” she says.

 

Marian had kept the burgeoning friendship quiet at first, until Zelena had sent Regina a bunch of selfies of her and Marian out to dinner together. “Traitor,” she had said when they’d skyped that night, though she’d not been able to stop laughing.

 

“I like her,” Marian had said. “The first time we hung out she threatened to steal Mulan from me, cackled for a solid five minutes about it, and then tried to gift me a Prada handbag.”

 

“That’s my sister,” Regina had said, sighing.

 

“She reminds me of you,” Marian had told her but before Regina could summon the appropriate outrage at the comparison, she had added, “I miss you so much.”

 

But now Marian is in Boston, temporarily at least, so she can interview for positions at a couple of colleges. Currently, however she is making snacks for tonight’s ‘Lady’s Choice’ viewing party. Regina smiles across at Marian, an apron covering her crisp white blouse and shirt sleeves rolled up as she minces chilli. “Say hi to Zel,” Marian whispers and Regina sticks out her tongue.

 

“Marian says hi,” she says down the phone. “So, how’s… everything?”

 

“Mother is her usual self,” Zelena says, hearing the unspoken behind her question, and they’re silent a moment, Regina with the phone lodged between shoulder and ear as she rummages for the garlic crusher for Marian and then tops up her glass of wine.

 

She receives clipped emails from Mother once a week, emails that briefly outline her work and her health, and that glory in Zelena’s success. Occasionally, Mother asks a perfunctory question about Henry’s grades or his performance in soccer. She never asks about Regina’s job, despite the fact that advertising revenues and ratings have gone up tenfold under Regina’s management, despite the fact that sometimes Ursula calls her Wonder Woman, despite the fact that she’s so happy working there she has to pinch herself to believe it’s not some desperate dream.

 

Such things have never been important to Cora Mills. Perhaps one day she’ll change her mind, but Regina finds she no longer cares. She has her sister. She has Marian. She has Henry. She has–

 

And the front door slams open. Distantly, she hears Emma call out, “hey!” and a grin blooms across her lips. “Got to go,” she says.

 

“Say hi to Third Place for me,” Zelena says and hangs up before Regina can retort, or question how Zelena could possibly know. And then, Emma is behind her, pressing up against her back and wrapping an arm around her waist in an awkward half-hug.

 

“You let yourself in,” Regina says, sliding her phone onto the bench and nestling into Emma, feeling her body press against Regina’s, her warmth comforting.

 

“Sorry,” Emma says quickly, anxiety flitting across her face. Despite Regina telling her to please make herself at home, Emma still tends to knock on arrival, assiduously clean up after herself, and generally make herself take up as little space as possible. Regina had been delighted the other week to find a used coffee mug in the living room.

 

“No,” Regina replies. “It’s great.” Her hand goes automatically to the pocket of her jeans, fidgets with the extra key she had cut when she and Henry moved into their two bedroom semi-detached place in Brookline almost a month ago. Henry had picked out a keychain, one of those tacky, tourist-bait ones with Emma’s name on it, and he has been pestering her ever since to ask her.

 

(“It’d be so great, Mom,” he’d said, just before Emma had gone off chasing this latest bail jumper in Maine. “You and me and Emma, we could be a family.”

 

She’d almost cried.)

 

It is coming up to the anniversary of Henry finding out Emma had moved to Boston and had tracked her down and dragged her home with him, almost a year since they’d begun this tentative journey together. It hasn’t been easy–Emma’s prone to running, Regina all too likely to lash out–but they’re together and that's not nothing.

 

Marian coughs. “Guac’s made,” she says, placing a large bowl in the fridge. “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it.”

 

“Hey, Marian,” Emma says, polite, and Marian kisses her cheek, steals three cupcakes from the bench, and heads for the living room, from where the distant sounds of Henry and Mulan playing Guitar Hero echo.

 

Alone in the kitchen at last, Regina turns and pulls Emma towards her. Their foreheads touch, Emma’s hands on Regina’s hips, her thumb stroking at the bare skin where her tee-shirt has become rucked up. “Hey,” Regina whispers. “I missed you this week.”

 

“Missed you too,” Emma says, breath ghosting Regina’s skin. “Caught the guy though. And then…” She pauses. “I went and saw Mom and Dad.”

 

“Yeah?” She brings up a hand to stroke the curve of Emma’s jaw. “How are they?”

 

“Fine,” Emma says, and she shrugs. “Everything’s exactly the same. It’s weird. Dad wants me back in the sheriff’s department. It was good to see Neal and Ruth though.” She leans forward, bridging the gap between them, and kisses Regina, her lips soft, polite. There’ll be passion later, Regina imagines, and feels her stomach tighten at the thought, but Emma draws back and looks around. “Where’s Henry?”

 

“Occupied,” Regina says, raising an eyebrow. “And won’t be scarred for life if he catches his moms kissing once or twice.” Emma tenses at the implication that she’s Henry’s mother (and admittedly Regina is still getting used to the idea herself), but she doesn’t bolt like she might have even a few short months ago. Instead, she lets Regina press light kisses to her neck and jaw, sighing into the touch, and soon a smile forms reluctantly on Emma’s lips.

 

“I missed you,” she repeats, and this time it’s a less perfunctory response, her voice needy. She nuzzles her head against Regina’s shoulder, lips scalding her skin. “You and Henry both.”

 

“He’s missed you too.”

 

“I got his messages,” Emma says. Though too young for a cell phone, Henry has been sending Emma messages all week on her cell phone, written with his best spelling and every word obsessed over because he didn’t want Emma to think he was stupid.

 

_Hi Emma! I got an A in my spelling test today! Hope you are well!_

_Hi Emma! I hope you caught the bad guy today! Mr Forrest farted in art class and he got really angry when we laughed but it was soooo funny :)_

_Hi Emma! Here’s a picture of a cat Violet sent me!_

_Hi Emma! Mom’s making apple spice cake tonight!!! You should come home._

 

“He’s in the living room.”

 

“I need a shower first,” Emma says. “Give me twenty minutes.” She kisses Regina once more and departs in the direction of the bathroom. Again, Regina traces the edges of the key in her pocket, before making her way to the living room.

 

Marian is battling Henry at ‘Cherrybomb’ and losing, and Regina curls up in what she territorially thinks of as _her_ armchair and watches them, Marian almost doubled over with laughter as she attempts to play. Mulan has bare feet up on a footstool, hand curved against her rounded belly, and is cheering Henry on. When the song finishes, Marian collapses dramatically onto the couch, resting her head on Mulan’s lap, while Henry dances in victory. “My own fiancée!” she cries. “How can I trust you after such betrayal?”

 

Mulan rolls her eyes. “Perhaps I’ll marry Shang instead, make my mother proud,” she says, referring to their sperm donor and Mulan’s very gay best friend. Then, she winces. “Oof, bub’s jumping on my bladder.” Marian twists and presses a kiss to Mulan’s stomach.

 

“One hour until show time,” Regina says. “Henry, is your room tidy?”

 

He grimaces. “Kind of?”

 

“Go and clean,” she says and he scowls, looking for a moment like he might argue, but complies, skulking from the room.

 

“Where’s Emma?” Marian asks.

 

“Washing up,” she says and wishes she hadn’t because Mulan wolf-whistles and Regina feels her face grow hot.

 

“Lady-killer Mills,” Marian says and she's smirking.

 

“You’re both banned from spending any more time with my sister. I’m going to check on Henry.”

 

She ignores Marian waggling her eyebrows and flees, finding Henry having cornered Emma, fresh from the shower, wearing Regina’s bathrobe and with the appearance of a small rodent cornered by a predator. “And I totally beat Mulan at–”

 

“Henry Daniel Mills,” she says, lips thinning. “Do you want to miss the show altogether? Room. Tidy. Now.” His lower lip juts out and she can’t help but soften at that, adding, “Emma will still be here when you’ve finished.”

 

Henry throws his arms around Emma. “Glad you’re back, ‘ma,” he says and a lump forms in Regina’s throat at the shortening of Emma’s name.

 

He's mentioned it to her before as a possibility. “Not Mom,” he'd said. “That's you. But maybe, like, it sounds like Emma anyway…”

 

(She _had_ suggested he not push it but, well, Henry is nothing if not bull-headed. His mother’s son in every sense of the phrase.)

 

“Thanks,” Emma mutters when they’re alone. Her eyes are suspiciously wet, hair hanging damp and heavy around her shoulders, and when she moves the gown splits, baring an expanse of toned thigh. Regina’s eyes drift and Emma pulls the robe around herself, flushing.

 

She follows Emma into the bedroom, weaves her arms around her and presses kisses to where her neck meets spine as she rummages for underwear in her overnight bag. “I thought–tonight,” Emma says, but her voice is pitched higher and breathless and she's pushing back against Regina.

 

“Can’t wait,” Regina murmurs into her skin, fiddling with the cords of the robe. She's naked underneath the robe; that glimpse of skin had been too tantalising for words. “It’s been a week.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Emma laughs and she turns, bathrobe slipping from her shoulder. “And you haven’t…” But she stops because Regina’s hands have discovered bare skin and are glorying in the smooth feel of skin beneath the pads of her fingers, tracing pebbled, responsive nipples, the faint stretch marks at her hips and belly, and then lower. Emma gasps and Regina grins, let's her fingers find their mark again and again and again.

 

And there's something glorious about Emma when she comes, even after time and familiarity and trust have eased angry passion; she’s free and unencumbered and triumphant as her fingers grasp Regina's hair, pulling a little too hard, and she arcs and lets out a deep groan that has Regina tingling.

 

“Amazing,” Regina murmurs into the crook of her neck and Emma lets out a choked laugh, before flipping them.

 

Regina is curled up against her, sated after an orgasm that took only a matter of moments to explode from her once Emma set to work, when there’s a knock at the bedroom door. “Um, pizza just arrived and the show’s starting in ten.” Mulan sounds like she wants to die and, judging by the flush of Emma’s skin that Regina is delighted to see travel across her body, Emma feels similarly.

 

Regina rises, pulling on fresh underwear, her own having disappeared somewhere behind the bed at some stage in the proceedings, and taking her jeans from Emma. “Hey,” Emma says. “Your keys.” She picks them up, looks at the keychain, and her lips quirk into an uncertain smile. “Are these–”

 

“Yes,” Regina says. “I–we–would like you to move in with us.”

 

Emma is very quiet and she panics. “No pressure, just, know that it’s there if you…” Her rambling is stopped with a kiss and she feel Emma’s grin against her lips.

 

“How does tomorrow sound?” Emma smile is sunshine and she bathes in the warmth of the light.

 

In the living room, Marian has set up the pizzas and guacamole and various snacks they’d spent the afternoon preparing out on the coffee table and she raises an eyebrow when Regina and Emma enter. “Room tidy?” Regina asks Henry, ignoring her, and he nods, before spotting the keys clutched in Emma’s hand.

 

“Really?” he asks and when Regina nods, he leaps up, pulling them both into a hug that has Emma and Regina both teary.

 

“Guys,” Mulan says, gesturing at the television, and Regina looks over Henry’s shoulder to see the television screen, where a female announcer says, “tonight on a dramatic season premiere of Lady’s Choice...”

 

“Who’s the presenter?” Marian asks. “Amazing voice.”

 

“Nala King,” Regina says.

 

She’d heard all about her from Zelena.  “A real coup,” Zelena had said with some satisfaction and Regina couldn’t help but be impressed that Zelena had managed to get the Broadway star, straight off a run of ‘Porgy and Bess’, to present such a dreadful show. “But the network agreed and Nala was impressed with Tamara. Of course, it helps that she’s _gorgeous._ ”

 

(The way Zelena talks, Regina’s sure she’ll see them gal-palling around town before long.)

 

As the opening continues, she slides into her chair, pulling Emma down to sit with her, half on her lap, and coils her arms around her waist. Henry leans against the chair and grabs one of the pizzas, passing it back to her and Emma. Mulan loads a corn chip with guacamole and drops a large portion down her top.

 

And there’s Tamara on screen, skin glowing, hair a mass of curls around her face, staring pensively out at the Brooklyn Bridge. “When we last saw Tamara Drake, she had narrowly missed out on winning the suitor’s heart,” Nala says.

 

“Huge loss,” Emma mutters, and Regina presses a kiss to her shoulder, clutches her a little tighter, loves her.

 

“But now,” the voiceover continues, as a montage of shots of Tamara at work at her PR firm play on screen, “it’s Tamara’s turn to find her perfect match. It’s time for Lady’s Choice!”

 

Her phone buzzes with a message from Zelena, though perhaps the word message is something of a misnomer for what is just a series of exclamation points.

 

Regina watches as Emma, almost unconsciously, ruffles a hand through Henry’s hair. Marian smiles across at her, curled up against Mulan who now has the guacamole resting on her belly. She feels Emma’s warmth, her solidity, her presence; this is it, this is family.

  
She settles back into the armchair and lets herself just be the audience, immersed in her sister’s trashy debut show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end. A big thank you to all who have supported this story throughout, who have been patient with me, who have sent such lovely reviews.


End file.
